


Buen Viaje

by Prevalent_Masters



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Depression, Dorks in Love, F/F, F/M, Grantaire/Combeferre very deep platonic love, M/M, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:23:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prevalent_Masters/pseuds/Prevalent_Masters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I live with Enjolras, and all I can tell you is that I've never seen him show passion towards anyone besides the full-page photo of Karl Marx in his 19th century philosophy textbook."<br/>Beside them, Combeferre lets out a loud groan and faceplants on the kitchen table, nearly upsetting his coffee mug.  A flash of guilt passes over Courfeyrac's face.  "I mean that...not in a weird way."<br/>"Stop talking," Combeferre says.  "Please."</p><p>Or, Combeferre is terrified of everyone and hopelessly in love with his best friend and Grantaire is homeless and suddenly finds himself living in a commune where everyone is overly invested in organic gardening and something called Kombucha.  No one ever said your 20s were easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then

**Author's Note:**

> Just in time for finals, I decided to write a Les Mis fic. I've been a fan for three years and never written anything and now this monster comes pouring out. Hope you enjoy.

**Then**

Combeferre doesn’t have many friends. He likes it that way; he likes quiet, he likes solitude, and he likes books.  He doesn’t hate people, but people are loud and they mess about and complain and nothing is ever quite right with them and—well, Combeferre doesn’t hate people, but he’d rather not have to talk to any.

By the end of his nerve-wracking freshman year in college, he did have two friends.  He met Enjolras on the first day of orientation, when they both skipped the campus tour in favor of going to a rally at a public park a block away. Combeferre went because it was protesting an oil pipeline that would be built through sensitive spotted owl habitat. Enjolras went because it was a rally. He stood behind Enjolras as Enjolras issued a brutal verbal knockdown of a man who made a racist comment. After the man scuttled away, red-faced and ashamed, he tapped Enjolras on the shoulder and introduced himself. Enjolras immediately introduced him to Courfeyrac, who was (and remains) the kind of person who terrifies Combeferre: good-looking, fashionable, extremely sure of himself, clearly likeable. Combeferre immediately thought there was no way he’d get along with Courfeyrac, or, probably, Enjolras, who shone with a certain light probably fueled entirely by determination and the desire for justice.  This feeling lasted for approximately seven seconds, or as long as it took for Courfeyrac to throw an arm around his neck and drag him further into the crowd, already talking his ear off about spotted owl habitat and _fucking greedy-ass oil barons_.  Courfeyrac does not have Enjolras’ gift of rhetoric, but he makes up for it with the swearing.

 He’d loved both Enjolras and Courfeyrac quickly and easily—Courfeyrac is funny and quietly brilliant, with a near-photographic memory that allows him to take more credits than Combeferre can ever dream of and still have time to party four nights out of seven.  Enjolras is like the brother he never had, so singular in his convictions and interests they can talk for hours without stopping, someone he can spout off to about the reproductive habits of moths and Russian literature and who actually seems _interested_ , someone who is always, inexplicably, by his side.

He told Enjolras he was gay at the beginning of their sophomore year.  He’s still the only one who knows.

 He didn’t tell Enjolras about the ugly, painful crush he had on him.  Still has. Probably always will, because Enjolras is bright and passionate and shining and _everything_ and utterly impossible not to love.

It’s halfway through their sophomore year when Enjolras suggests Courfeyrac move in with them.  Combeferre distinctly remembers actually biting down on his tongue in an effort not to shout “No!” out loud, because yes, he likes Courfeyrac—he’s good to study with, he’s funny, he has a fake ID—but he’s also kind of an asshole, loud, obnoxious, overly-social, and listens to a horrific mix of Kanye West, Dr. Dre, and One Direction.  Combeferre may like him, but he will never, never understand him.  Sure, he wants him in walking distance, but he does not want him in the next room over.

 Enjolras, as usual, persists through a mixture of logic and manipulative rhetoric, and Courfeyrac moves in after winter break.

 A week after that, Combeferre walks into the apartment after an extra late shift at the bookshop spent cataloging new arrivals, eyes itching from staring at miniscule type in notebooks and on computer screens. At first he thinks he walked into the wrong apartment and immediately leaves before realizing that this _has_ to be his apartment because his key fit in the lock.  Which doesn’t explain the wall of people and pounding music

Someone shoves a beer at him before he can react and he fights through the throng to get to his room, mercilessly shoving people out of the way and cursing Courfeyrac’s name, because really, who else’s fault could this be?

 He doesn’t expect to find Enjolras, drink in hand, talking animatedly to two people he’s never seen before. Three people who are listening intently and nodding and Enjolras is glowing.

“Enjolras?” he says weakly, hand clammy around the unopened can of beer.

 “”Ferre!”  Enjolras throws an arm around him, far too happy for the circumstances. “This is Feuilly and Bahorel. They both have wonderful insights into the classism inherent to university systems.”  Enjolras’ eyes are shining and Combeferre knows better than to try to disengage him at this point.  He leaves them behind and continues to search for Courfeyrac so he can kill him.

It’s not that Combeferre doesn’t like people, _per se_ , but he’d usually just rather not have to deal with them.  Also large groups of people stress him out.  Especially if he doesn’t know more than a quarter of them. Something about the warmth of many bodies in a small space, the low murmur of dozens of voices at once, the knowledge that every last one of those people are quietly, maybe even subconsciously, forming an opinion of him…it makes him uncomfortable.  He hates it.  And he really wants to go to bed.

Courfeyrac holds court in the middle of the kitchen, cheeks flushed and eyes dancing with drunken excitement. He lifts an arm towards Combeferre, beckons him in, sloshing his drink over the edge of the cup. Before he knows it, he’s tucked under Courfeyrac’s arm being introduced to a dozen people he’s never seen before and will probably never see again.

 Except he does recognize one of them, thank _fucking_ God. “This is Joly,” Courfeyrac finishes, flinging his other arm around a short guy with glasses and sloshing half his drink down his front.  Combeferre grins in relief as the guy stares down at his wet t-shirt in horror. “Hey, Joly.  How was your break?”

 The guy raises his eyes from his shirtfront and smiles shyly back.  “Good. You?  You end up passing cell bio?”

 He nods, trying to figure out how Courfeyrac knows this guy.  Courfeyrac is a pre-law and Political Science double major, which is how he met Enjolras, which is how he knows Combeferre.  Joly is pre-med, like Combeferre, and he can’t quite figure out how they could have met. But then again, Courfeyrac prides himself on knowing everyone.  This party is fair proof of the accuracy of that statement.

 “I did, too,” Joly says, breaking him out of his thoughts.  “’Bossuet here didn’t though, he has to retake it.”  The tall bald guy standing next to Joly grins bashfully and sticks out a hand. “Hey, don’t think we’ve met.”

 “No,” Combeferre acknowledges, extracting his arm from where it’s squished against Courfeyrac’s side and shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about cell bio.”

 Bossuet shrugs and laughs as Joly prods him in the side.  “He never went to class, anyway.”

 “8 a.m.s, I can’t do them.”

 “Glad you already know each other,” Courfeyrac grins, then reaches up to mess with Combeferre’s hair.  He manages to duck away just in time, but can’t avoid another splash from Courfeyrac’s drink.  He opens his mouth to tell him off but Courfeyrac’s already off on something else, wandering away to chat up a girl standing by the keg ( _they have a keg in their kitchen, Jesus Christ_ ).  He’s left standing with Joly and Bossuet and he can think of absolutely nothing intelligent to say.  Eventually he pops open the beer can and takes a swig, grimacing at the bitter taste.

 “What classes are you in this term?” Joly asks, breaking the silence.  “Still in pre-med?”

 He nods.  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking—well, I probably won’t but—I was thinking about just changing to organismal biology and doing the vet program next year, but—“

 “Dude,” Bossuet looks impressed. “That’d be awesome.”

 “I—“ he cuts himself off.  He hasn’t told anyone about this particular thought yet, especially not his family, who all seem to be hinging every hope they have on him becoming a successful surgeon, or Enjolras, who always found a rather romantic satisfaction in the idea of Combeferre being a doctor and saving people’s lives.

 The thing is—being a doctor means lots and lots of people and pressure for the rest of his life.  And he wants to help people, he does—really—but he thinks being a vet would be so peaceful.  And he would still be helpful.  But helpful to animals, which are infinitely less terrifying than people. And, in general, far easier to deal with.

 Not that it matters.  He’d not brave enough to do it, anyway.

 Joly fixes Bossuet with a glare. “Why do you say that?”

 “Pre-meds are a bunch of pretentious assholes,” Bossuet says with a straight face.  “Veterinarians are all nice people.”

 “ _You’re_ pre-med!” Joly cries.

“I know.”  He grins smugly and Combeferre laughs.  “It’s just a thought right now,” he says.  “All the classes are practically the same, anyway.  I’m in Pathology and Parasitology and Genetics and Evolution and…Calc II, unfortunately.”

“Three out of four,” Joly says. “I already took Calc. It sucks, have fun.”

He laughs again.  “Thanks.”

Joly shrugs.  “I have all the old tests, though.  So hit me up if you want.”

Bossuet pokes Joly in the ribs. “I have to work. We should go.”

Combeferre looks at his watch, thinking for a horrific instant that it’s morning.  But it’s only 12:30.  “You have to work _now_?” he can’t stop himself from asking.  Bossuet laughs. 

“Nah, not till the morning.  But I work in a bakery and my shift starts at 5 am, so I’d like to get a _little_ sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joly grumbles, setting down the bottle he’s holding.  “Lemme find Courf to say bye first.  See you in class, Combeferre.”

He nods.  “See you.” 

 They disappear into the next room, leaving Combeferre alone in the corner of the kitchen.  He turns around and reaches across the counter to set the nearly-full beer can in the sink.  His eyes prickle with tiredness and he decides that if he listens to music loudly enough he can probably drown out the chatter and fall asleep.  He feels curiously content, though.  He had a perfectly successful and normal conversation with Joly and Bossuet, possibly ensuring at least “study buddy” status for this term. He should get a medal.

He falls asleep that night with a pair of dusty earplugs stuffed in his ears, simultaneously cursing Courfeyrac and grudgingly thankful.

* * *

Getting the job at the bookstore was probably the best thing that ever happened to him, next to meeting Enjolras. His parents weren’t happy when he told them ( _You shouldn’t be wasting your time on books_ , his mother told him, _you should be focusing on residencies and internships; how is a retail job supposed to help you get into med school, huh?_ )  Still, there is no place in the world he loves more than the bookshop with its dusty aisles and friendly regulars and gorgeous first-editions.

He loves books, it’s no secret. His obsession is so pronounced that Courfeyrac, in response to Combeferre’s non-existent sex life and never-ending reading list, has come to the loudly-proclaimed conclusion that Combeferre is sexually attracted to books.  Which. Well, isn’t completely wrong. Because he’d rather be sitting somewhere reading a book than going on a date anyway.  The other reason for not dating is the person he spends 85% of his time with.  The person currently sitting in front of him, staring earnestly into his eyes. 

“I think,” Enjolras says, “I want to start a club.”

He lifts his eyes from his Pathology textbook to stare at him.  “What?”

“I guess,” Enjolras fidgets and looks away. “More of a group? A political action group? Or social justice group.”

“Oh,” he lowers his eyes back to the book. “Okay.”

 “I want you to help out.  Be, like, co-chair or something.”

“I don’t want to be a co-chair,” he says immediately, which of course, to Enjolras’ ears, makes it sound like he wants to be the only chair.  Which he really, really doesn’t.  “I mean,” he says, backtracking, “I can be, like, treasurer or something. Instead.”

Enjolras sticks out his bottom lip like the child he is. “I don’t _want_ you to be treasurer,” he says petulantly.  “I want you to be a leader.  With me.  I’m bad with people. You’re…personable.”

“ _You’re_ bad with people?  _I’m_ bad with people, Enjolras.”

“Maybe when you don’t know anyone, but you make friends fast and people like you.  They trust you.”

 He can’t help himself.  A sputter of laughter makes it past his lips despite his valiant effort to keep it inside.  He’s not personable.  He’s terrified and awkward and usually ends conversations early with some stupid excuse so he can run off to be on his own.  He has, like, maybe five people he can call real friends.

Enjolras, of course, takes his response personally.

“You always do this.  Put yourself down.  You don’t see yourself, ‘Ferre.”

He sees himself.  All too often.  He spends most of his time wishing he could get away from himself for a bit.

“Anyway,” Enjolras continues, stealing a sip of the cold coffee Courfeyrac left on the counter.  “It’s not really a leadership position.  That’s kind of the point, I don’t want anyone to be the _leader_.” 

“Communist social justice groups,” he muses. It’s not a terrible idea.

And so it begins.

* * *

 

**NOW**

Grantaire isn’t homeless, per se. It depends on how you would define homeless.  Does he have a bed—well, a couch—to crash on?  Yes. Is he technically (usually) paying rent for the privilege of that couch-bed?  Yes.  Is there a fridge in that flat with a shelf with his name on it?  Yes. 

Does he want to go there, sleep on the couch-bed, and use the fridge shelf?  No. Should he?  Definitely not.

This is all part of his big self-realization plan. R 2.0, he calls it in his head, because it makes it sound fun instead of painfully miserable. Step one: stop drinking so much hard liquor (this does not apply to beer and wine.  Because really, who even views beer and wine as alcohol?). Step two: move out of his drug den of a flat.  Which can’t be done until he has a new place to crash.  But he really doesn’t want to ask, or go flat hunting, and he also really doesn’t want to go back because he knows the second he steps through the door he’ll be seduced by the scent of weed and the bottles lining the kitchen shelves and the peer pressure of his deadbeat flatmates, and, well—he knows how he operates. He doesn’t want to take the chance.

Hence, being sort of homeless and slumped over a bar with a pint—just beer, mind you—at six o’clock on a Wednesday night.

Feuilly, bless him, takes pity. He finishes wiping down the counter and adjusts the vase of wildflowers on the corner of the bar—it’s a classy, hipster joint, really not a place Grantaire can afford, but he needs friends and Feuilly, for some blessed reason, is his friend—and comes to lean his elbows on the bar right in front of Grantaire.

“Come to the meeting tonight.”

He stares into the amber of his beer and wonders if he could fit his mouth and nose far enough into the glass to drown in it. It’s too shallow. That means he needs a refill.

He’d like to think that’s old Grantaire behavior but who’s he kidding?  Not that much has changed.  Including his continued refusal to attend the mysterious meetings of the social justice network that Feuilly never shuts up about.  He pushes his glass forward.  Feuilly shakes his head and pushes it back.  Grantaire sighs in defeat.

“One of my friends has an open room in their house,” he says. “At the very least you could meet them and ask about it.”

Okay. New information.

“What, do they have like, a couch? Or an actual room? A _room_ room?”

Feuilly chuckles and comes around the counter to hoist himself onto a bar stool next to Grantaire.  “A _room_ room, R. It’s a house.  A lot of people live there.  I mean, it’s sort of…weird.  They’re all very in to, like, organic gardening and kombucha and community.”

His hopes, which had flared very quickly, die. Because organic gardening and community are not Grantaire things, not even new Grantaire things, let alone…

“Kombucha?”

Feuilly waves his hand like he’s trying to wave off all of Grantaire’s concerns.  “It’s some fermented tea thing, it has alcohol in it, you’d probably like it, but that’s not the _point_. I didn’t mean that to scare you away, they’re all really nice.  They’d love you!”

Feuilly really is the eternal optimist. Working three jobs and still finding time to slip in a few classes at the University as he gradually works away on his degree, plus running a booth at the weekend market to sell his beautiful handmade fans and blown glass sculptures.  That’s how Grantaire first met him, their booths were right next to each other, back before Grantaire dropped out and he still had enough faith in his art to try selling it.  Feuilly, despite not having any disposable income, had bought a piece, a portrait of a girl whose name Grantaire can no longer remember.  It still hangs on the wall of his flat, right above his futon. Grantaire thinks he probably gave a piece of his soul up to Feuilly when he bought that painting, but there isn’t a person better to own a bit of you than the cheerful freckled red-head with his biting sense of humor and toothy grin.

But for all his wonderful qualities, Feuilly does have a tendency to lie to himself in his optimism.  Like thinking that people would love Grantaire, especially people who he’s never met.  Grantaire’s grateful to have a few good friends, and he loves them to death, but he knows he’s not an easy person to love.  Or to deal with, period.  Hence the difficulty with finding new flatmates. 

“I don’t think so,” he says flatly, and returns to staring into the depths of his beer.  This must be like what those fossilized insects saw right before they died. Fascinating.

“ _R_.” Feuilly stresses the word; it’s his no-nonsense tone, his _Grantaire I swear to God you’ll listen to me because we both know I know best_ tone. The tone that Grantaire usually, eventually, listens to.

“Come to the meeting.  Meet my friend.  Go see the house or something.  I think you can handle kombucha if it means you’re not sleeping on a park bench. Or not sleeping at all.”

“I’m _sleeping_.”

“You wandered around the night before last and ended up listening to jazz at a 24 hour café before coming to my place at an obscene hour of the morning.  Last night, you wandered around and then sat on a park bench, where you slept for an hour or two.  I know this because you told me.”

Okay yes.  Feuilly is right.  As usual. Damn him.

“Okay,” he sighs, because, in the end, it’s not as though he has a choice.  “I’ll go with you.”

“Excellent,” Feuilly says and rubs his hands together like he’s plotting something evil.  “It starts at eight, down at the Corinth.  I’m off in an hour, stick around and we’ll go together.”

He knows Feuilly isn’t telling him to stay because he enjoys his company, he just wants to make sure Grantaire doesn’t run away and disappear.  Which is a valid concern.

But as Feuilly dumps a plate of calamari in front of him and stuffs three in his mouth at once, grinning around a fried tendril that sticks out between his lips, Grantaire thinks it might be just a little bit that Feuilly enjoys his company.

He regrets everything as he follows Feuilly through a slight drizzle towards the Corinth.  Grantaire’s been there before, he’s been to nearly every bar and café in the neighborhood if he wants to be honest with himself, but not for awhile. Primarily because he heard through Feuilly that that’s where the social justice club’s been meeting, which makes him keen to avoid the entire block.

It’s a miserable autumn night with the sort of chill that creeps down collars and twists inside fingertips. He shoves his fists deeper into the pockets of his thin jacket and curses himself for his complacency. He shouldn’t agree to things like this. He knows that. He should know better by now, but here he is. He should have never even thought about R 2.0.

You can call him a lot of things, but optimist is not one of them.  He prefers to think of himself as a realist.  Other people just call him a downer.  Which is why he shouldn’t be here.

Feuilly turns to him and grins. “We’re here!  Stop scowling, R, you’re going to scare people off before you’re even introduced.  Cheer up, I’ll buy you a drink.”

He despises the part of him that sits up and begs like a dog at the mention of alcohol, but it gets him through the door.

The place is packed, a warm respite from the damp night, and loud with conversation.  Feuilly points to a corner to the side of the bar and raises his voice slightly over the din.  “That’s us over there. They look intimidating at first, but trust me they’re all lovely.  I’ll grab drinks.  The one in the yellow sweater is who you should talk to about the house.”

The group is the most eclectic mix of people he’s ever seen in one place at the same time, and he’s been to some pretty weird parties. There are only a dozen or so, but their energy seems to fill the entire corner and more. Everyone is talking very loudly. Someone is standing on a table, and no one seems to think it strange.  The person Feuilly pointed at appears to have an entire wilting garden of flowers in—His?  Her?—hair.  And sitting at the center table, tan skin somehow radiating a glow through the dim room and staring at him with icy blue eyes and a frown, is the most beautiful person Grantaire has ever seen.

Yes, homeless or not, this was most definitely a mistake. 


	2. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for the positive feedback on the first chapter! I'm glad so many of you seem interested, and I hope I can write something that does these characters justice.
> 
> My goal is to update once a week, and my plan is ten chapters, though there might end up being a few more. I'm headed into finals, so the update schedule might be a bit off depending on how overwhelmed I get, but I'll do my best.
> 
> These first few chapters are un-beta'd because I don't have a beta. If anyone's interested...hit me up.
> 
> Thanks again, guys! Hope you enjoy.

SEPTEMBER

 

Combeferre notices him immediately. He’s with Feuilly, which means he can be one of two people: Grantaire or Eponine, both of whom Feuilly has been promising to drag to meetings for the better part of a year.  Combeferre doesn’t like to assume anything about anyone’s gender, especially based on name or appearance, but from what Feuilly’s told them this has to be Grantaire.

Tall and thin, but slouched over so as to seem small. Dark circles under his eyes and pale, pale skin.  A significant amount of scruff and wild curls shoved under a dubiously clean beanie. The twist of a permanent smirk on his mouth.  And wide eyes currently fixed on…Enjolras.  Who else?

He forces down the twist of jealousy. Everyone looks at Enjolras like this the first time they meet him.  It shouldn’t bother him anymore.  It definitely still does.

He glances over at Enjolras and sees him staring right back.  Or glaring. Enjolras isn’t the most welcoming person in the world.  He sets a single finger on Enjolras’ arm, a warning, and Enjolras’ eyes flick away from the new guy to meet his.

 _“Be nice_ ,” he whispers, because sometimes Enjolras needs the reminder. And despite the enthralled, open-mouthed stare the guy is currently displaying, they can always use more members. There’s always more to do.

He had caved, of course, to Enjolras’ desires. He’s a co-chair of their little group, a job he shares with both Enjolras, and, surprisingly, Courfeyrac. He would have never expected someone as hyperactive and scattered as Courfeyrac to be a brilliant organizer or speaker, but everyone has their surprises.  At least Combeferre can stand him for longer periods of time now.

And, he has to admit, the responsibility has done him a bit of good.  A semester of it, and he’s a bit less terrified of people, has approximately twelve good friends as opposed to four, and can manage public speaking without wanting to die. He’s still hasn’t switched to the vet program, though, and at this point it’s too late. Or so he tells himself. The annoyingly candid part of his conscience, buried deep inside, tells him it’s just because he’s a coward, on so very many different levels.

Grantaire has crept perhaps a foot closer to them and now has his hand hooked in the scarf around his neck like he’s forgotten how to take it off.  Combeferre takes pity.

Grantaire looks surprised when Combeferre walks up to him and sticks his hand out.  It takes him a few long, delayed moments to react, and when he does he can’t seem to think of anything to say.

“I’m Combeferre,” Combeferre says. “You’re Grantaire, right? Feuilly’s told us a lot about you.”

“Oh no,” says Grantaire, then immediately blushes bright red.  “I mean—good things, I hope?” A nervous chuckle. Combeferre physically feels his pain.

“Yeah, of course,” he says.  “He says you’re an artist—I’ve seen that painting you did at his place.  Glad you could join us!” He’s gradually guiding Grantaire over to the cluster of tables where they’re sitting.  Grantaire’s moving like his heels are stuck in the tile floor.

Feuilly breezes up to them and shoves a beer into Grantaire’s hand.  “’Sup Combeferre? I see you’ve met Grantaire.” He puts his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and assists Combeferre in the effort to force forward motion.

Once they get him seated (his eyes are still flicking over to look at Enjolras every ten seconds.  Enjolras has stopped his staring and is now glaring at his notebook like his own writing has personally offended him), Feuilly beckons to Jehan.

“Might’ve found you someone to fill in that spare room of yours.  This is Grantaire.”

Jehan is a lot to take in even on the best of days. Today’s outfit isn’t even that outlandish—a bright yellow sweater paired with floral print skinny jeans. Grantaire’s eyes bug out anyway. Maybe it’s because of the five large sunflowers stuck in Jehan’s hair—which probably looked lovely this morning when picked from the garden, but which are now wilted and shedding petals every time Jehan turns their head—or maybe Grantaire isn’t as aggressively socially progressive as everyone else in the room and this is about to get awkward.

Jehan sticks out a hand and doesn’t wait for Grantiare to reciprocate, instead grabbing it from where it’s laying next to his beer and shaking enthusiastically.

“Great, fantastic, wonderful. When can you move in? Cause seriously, you can move in, like, tonight.  Rent’s coming up—its super cheap per person, don’t worry, but I mean we don’t really want to have to pay for _two_ empty rooms. And everyone’s way behind on chores and the garden’s drowning in weeds cause I’m the only one who likes dirt. I hope you like dirt. And cooking.  We need someone who can cook, Bahorel’s fantastic at breakfast but we can’t keep eating scrambled eggs and pancakes for every meal. I’m _so_ glad you’ve finally come to a meeting, we’ve been waiting for you to come since Feuilly _met_ you.” Jehan doesn’t stop shaking Grantaire’s hand for the entire duration of his speech.

Once again, Grantaire is slow to react, but he eventually finds his words.  “I—I can cook?” he offers weakly.

“Excellent,” Jehan says briskly. “You’re in.  I’ll talk to you after the meeting and introduce you to everyone.”

“I—thanks?” Grantaire says.  Then, “I like your flowers.” 

Jehan beams.  Combeferre decides he approves of Grantaire.

The meeting goes quickly—there’s a rally next week to protest university budget cuts, and they’re planning on participating, but all the preparations are already made and there isn’t much to talk about. The meeting degenerates into an angry conversation about the refugee crisis, and eventually, after everyone’s had a few drinks, a lip sync battle between Bossuet and Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac wins, but Bossuet is a close runner up thanks to the number of times he jumps on top of tables. Which is how they eventually get kicked out.

Combeferre spent most of the time talking with Joly about their first Immunology test, but he keeps his eyes on both Grantaire and Enjolras throughout the meeting.  Grantaire stays quiet, doodling on the edge of a napkin until Jehan and Bahorel engage him in talk after the meeting.  Enjolras keeps stealing glances his way when he thinks no one’s watching.  Combeferre feels an ugly twisting in his stomach every time the blue eyes flick towards Grantaire’s table. 

Enjolras looks like he hates the fact Grantaire exists and is attending the meeting, but Combeferre’s known him long enough to understand that the look of terrifying anger is Enjolras’ way of disguising deep inner confusion.  And Combeferre is tuned in enough to have detected the faint blush that colored his cheeks in the millisecond his eyes met Grantaire’s.  He’s already resigning himself to the pain and angst of Enjolras having a crush on someone, a particular torture he’s only experienced a few times thus far.  It’s only the third week in the semester, and he can already tell it’s going to be a fun one. Which isn’t to say he’s a pessimist…but he’s feeling pessimistic.

He and Enjolras bundle up against the rain after the meeting and walk home together.  Courfeyrac waves goodbye and follows Bahorel and Feuilly to a different bar, reminding them for the thousandth time that he doesn’t have any classes before noon this semester.

He can practically feel Enjolras fuming next to him while they splash through puddles on the way back to their flat.

‘What’s up?” he ventures eventually. “The meeting went great, everything’s planned and ready to go for the rally.  What are you worried about?”

Enjolras remains silent for a moment before bursting. “I’m worried about Courf. He goes out too much, he hasn’t been showing up to class and I don’t think he understands how important this semester is for his future in the law program.  And I don’t think Cosette has the handle she says she does on postering for the event later this month; I haven’t seen _anything_ around campus even though she said she asked the student union and the residence halls for permission on Monday.  She’s getting distracted by Marius, and I can’t even _talk_ about Marius, I don’t even get why he’s coming to meetings.  No. I do get it; it’s cause Cosette comes, but he’s of no use, he just sits in the corner and stares at her the entire time and distracts her, I can’t stand it. And Jehan has been distracted this semester, too, with that gardening club or whatever it is. People don’t seem as invested this semester and I don’t know how to get them all back on track.”

He’s panting by the time he pauses for breath. A long strand of blond hair has escaped his hat and hood and is stuck to his cheek with the rainwater. His eyes are wild. Combeferre feels like his heart is being pummeled by thousands of tiny fists.

“What’d you think of that new guy? Grantaire?”

He can actually hear Enjolras’ teeth grind together. “He didn’t contribute. Or introduce himself. He was rude.”

“Attractive though.”  Apparently he’s a masochist and enjoys heartbreak.

“His hair looked dirty,” Enjolras mumbles. Despite himself, Combeferre has to huff out a laugh.  Enjolras is nothing if not predictable. 

They’ve reached their building. Enjolras lets them in and shakes out his hair like a dog, spraying Combeferre with water droplets. He stalks into the kitchen at starts making a pot of coffee.

“It’s nine o’clock,” Combeferre points out.

“I’ve got a paper.”

Combeferre sighs and sits down at the kitchen table. “Look, Enjolras. Grantaire is probably moving in with Jehan and them, and he’ll probably keep coming to meetings. You’ve got to give him a chance. Feuilly has a lot of good things to say about him, and seems to think he can contribute to the group. You trust Feuilly’s judgment. But you can’t keep doing the laser-beam eye thing at him.  The reason he didn’t introduce himself was probably because you looked at him like he killed your mother when he walked in the door.”

“I did not,” Enjolras snaps, then flops down across from Combeferre.  “But fine. I trust Feuilly.” He’s silent for a few minutes, staring at the liquid dripping in the coffee maker.  “I don’t mean to be so…unwelcoming.”

“I know you don’t.  And I know your stressed about the club.  But look, you have to calm down about it. You can’t take everything on, and you can’t expect so much from everyone else.  Almost all of us are upperclassmen now; we’re all working and involved with other things too.  And this club is still running smoothly and doing so much for the campus and the city. And the posters went up this morning, by the way, I saw them.  You know it takes them a few days to get approved.  You just have to stop worrying so much about it, which,” he holds up a hand in response to Enjolras’ mouth opening to protest, “ _I know_ is easier said than done.  But. I don’t want to see you running yourself ragged over this when you don’t need to.”

Enjolras’ mouth is still open and he looks for a moment like he’s about to argue, but he eventually closes it and sighs.

“I know.  You’re right. About everything.  As usual.”

Combeferre looks down at his lap and mumbles “not as usual.”  He hates it when Enjolras does this.  Praises him for doing nothing.  For being nothing, for just telling the truth.

Enjolras reaches across the table and takes his hand. This is another problem. Enjolras is a very touchy person. He hugs people. And holds people’s hands. And likes to cuddle when he’s drunk or tired.  Combeferre’s life is a joke.

“This is why I needed you as co-chair,” Enjolras says, voice earnest and quiet, blue eyes boring into his.  “You understand other people; you remind me to understand them too.”

 He can’t meet Enjolras’ eyes.  “I hope I’m a help. I really do.”

Enjolras laughs.  “This club would be dead without you.  This club wouldn’t have even gotten off the ground without you. You know that.”

He can’t help but smile a bit. Enjolras squeezes his hand and gets up to pour a cup of coffee.  “Night ‘Ferre,” he says as he wanders out of the kitchen, laptop in hand. “Love you.”

Another problem.  Enjolras says love you a lot.  And he means it every time.  Just. Not in the right way.

Combeferre gives himself a moment to rest his head on the cool wood of the kitchen table and silently scream. Then he gets up, turns out the light in the kitchen and trails Enjolras down the hall to his own room where he resolves to memorize the structure of B lymphocytes until his brain melts out of his ears.

Courfeyrac comes home at 2 AM. Combeferre is still awake because he’s added insomnia to his list of problems for the semester. He’s trying to read to get his mind off things, but it’s not really working and he knows if he manages to fall asleep he’ll wake up from nightmares of being eaten by his own white blood cells.

Courfeyrac walks into his room without knocking and flops on the end of his bed, head hanging off the side.  His hand finds Combeferre’s ankle and he squeezes it.

“Guess what, ‘Ferre?” he slurs. “I’m _drunk_.”

“No way.”

“ _Wayyyyy_. We tried that new place. That new bar.  The new bar.  Musain. I liked it.  The bartender was hot and she gave me a free shot. So I kissed her.”

“That’s great, Courf.”

“I know, but.  But I came in here for reasons.  Did you see Enjolras looking at that new guy at the meeting today?”

He resists the urge to groan loudly. “Yes, Courf, I did.”

Courf raises his head and sticks his tongue out. “We’re going to get Enj some action.”

“We’re not.”  He’s 95% sure Courf won’t remember this conversation in the morning, so it’s okay to be an asshole.

Courf frowns at him, like he’s only just realizing who he’s talking to.  “You’re not asleep.”

“Clearly.”

Courf stares at him for an unnerving amount of time before levying himself up onto the bed with what appears to be a significant amount of effort.  He puts his other hand around Combeferre’s other ankle and squeezes them both. “You look so tired and sad lately. It makes me tired and sad. I want you to be happy.”

He smiles despite himself.  Courfeyrac is like a puppy, he feeds off the moods of the people around him.  He’s usually almost unbearably cheerful, but sadness and tragedy affect him like no one else. And Combeferre might be tired and done with absolutely everything, but Courfeyrac’s concern is still touching.

“I’m okay, Courf,” he says.  “Thanks.”

Courf smiles sadly and heaves himself up off the bed. He reaches up and messes with Combeferre’s hair.  “Go to sleep.”

“I will.  You too.  Drink a glass of water before you go to sleep.”  Courfeyrac’s leaving. “Go to class tomorrow!” he whisper-shouts at his retreating back, and gets a limp wave in response.

He doesn’t dream of murder by white blood cell. Instead, oddly, he dreams of Courf, staring at him with sad eyes and saying, over and over again, _I want you to be happy_ , until it becomes a mantra, almost melody-like, a cadence that remains thrumming through his head even after he wakes.

* * *

 

In the span of two hours, Grantaire gains a place to live and a brand new crush on the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. Said beautiful creature spent the full two hours glaring daggers at him.  Nothing good can ever happen to him without something terrible to accompany it.

“I saw the way you were staring at Enjolras,” Feuilly says the next day as he helps Grantaire shove his meager belongings into cardboard boxes.  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m not stupid,” he retorts, then backtracks. “Well.  I am.  But believe me I have enough foresight to tell that that will go absolutely nowhere. I was just appreciating a pretty face.”

“You looked like you were about to cry when you saw him,” Feuilly retorts, throwing a few crushed beer cans into a garbage bag. “And you didn’t try any terrible flirting tactics with him at all.  Which proves that you’re actually into him.”

“I’m not _into_ him. I don’t know him at all. And besides,” he grimaces as he reaches behind his mattress and touches something slimy. He’s definitely never cleaned this room. “I’m _definitely_ not into pretentious assholes and he _definitely_ is one.”

“Enjolras is one of my best friends,” Feuilly says mildly.  Grantaire knows this. Feuilly never stops talking about him. He basically sounds like Feuilly’s soulmate—same revolutionary ideas, same innocent optimism that makes him think change is even possible.  That sort of talk sickens Grantaire, but he puts up with it because Feuilly is a genuine saint. He somehow doesn’t think he’ll be able to do the same with this Enjolras character.  He’d had to tune out of the meeting five minutes in and focus on drawing caricatures of the bar’s other patrons in order to avoid interrupting the guy’s speech and inserting some sense into the conversation every few sentences.

He’s honestly pretty proud of himself for holding his tongue.  Who would’ve thought? R 2.0 is really gaining traction.

Feuilly hefts the garbage bag full of bottles over his shoulder.  “I’m taking this out to the recycling.  Are you almost ready to go?”

Grantaire looks at his meager belongings, mostly paint supplies, stuffed into three boxes.  He’s pathetic, always has been.  He hardly has anything to show for 23 years of life.  His roommates don’t even know he’s moving out.

He thinks about Jehan’s friendly smile and genuine excitement.  No one’s ever seemed that excited at the prospect of spending a significant amount of time with Grantaire.  Which, granted, is probably because Jehan doesn’t know him at all yet.  But still, it’s a refreshing feeling, to be wanted. To be needed, even if it’s just to pay rent.

“Grantaire,” Feuilly says, snapping his fingers to get his attention.  “Eponine’ll be here in five minutes.  Get your shit together. And leave that mattress here, I saw one on the side of the road that was less disgusting.”

“Thanks, Feuilly,” he says.  “That mattress is only as dirty as my body.”

“Disgusting, as I said.”  Feuilly pokes him on the arm.  “I know you don’t shower.  You admitted it to me when you told me your building doesn’t get hot water anymore.”

“I take sponge baths!” he shouts after Feuilly’s retreating figure.  He takes an exploratory sniff of his armpit.  It’s not even that bad. And besides, isn’t not showering part of the starving artist aesthetic?

His mattress is disgusting, though. He gives it one last look, then picks up his boxes, balancing all three precariously in his arms, and follows Feuilly downstairs.  The stormy weather of the night before has cleared out, and the day is sunny, a breeze rustling the brilliant orange of the maple trees lining the street. His hands itch to paint it, the vibrant colors against the pale blue skies.  He hasn’t painted anything that cheerful in months. Grantaire, painting a fall-foliage landscape?  Not in a million years. He’ll stick to depressing pencil sketches and abstract still lifes of wine bottles and grapes.

Not that he’s painted even that in months. He hasn’t painted anything in months. That’s the problem.

In fact, he hadn’t felt any inspiration until his eyes met those ridiculously blue ones at the Corinth fifteen hours ago—

He’s not going to think about that. Or about how, since then, he’s felt like painting just about everything he’s seen.  Or about the curious lightness in his mind and body that can’t be entirely explained by finding a new place to live.

Eponine screeches up in her beat up old Subaru. He picks up his boxes and looks back at the crumbling old building.  He hopes he never comes back.


	3. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So finals killed me.
> 
> I apologize for the extended wait; hopefully you enjoy the slightly longer chapter. I'm on break now, and I'm going to focus on writing so hopefully updates will be regular from now on.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of abuse, a panic attack, and the appearance of blood. Fun! 
> 
> Thanks for all the positive feedback! I'm glad you guys are enjoying it.

OCTOBER

Someone’s pounding on the door. Grantaire has the only ground floor bedroom, the one no one wants because it’s right next to the kitchen and the living room, where people are always awake and loud and talking. Not to mention the pipes, which bang and gurgle all night.

The knocking stops and he rolls over, burying his head under the pillow and praying the person is gone.  It starts up again almost immediately, this time accompanied by shouting he can’t quite make out.  He groans and sits up.  It’s 8:00. On a Saturday. What the _fuck_ does this person think they’re doing.

He’s three weeks in to living here and so far, it hasn’t been disastrous.  He actually can cook, which means everyone appreciates him at least.  He’s been working in the garden with Jehan, harvesting broccoli and fall spinach and stringing up onions to dry in the dilapidated little shed that leans against the side of the house.  The entire backyard is made up of raised beds and an overflowing compost heap and a large patch of tall, swaying corn mixed with the odd sunflower. Grantaire likes to walk in there sometimes, even though all of the corn is gone and most of the sunflowers are wilting.  He feels the dry stalks shift against his face, the sharp edges of leaves cutting into his skin without really hurting.  Sometimes he finds a sunflower that hasn’t wilted yet and brings it into the house for Jehan. It turns out kombucha doesn’t actually taste too bad, though he has thus far steadfastly refused to help make it, a process that is described using such terrifying words as “colonies”, “culture”, “mother”, “fermenting” and “Scooby”.  Bahorel is very passionate about his recipe, and he keeps trying to explain it to Grantaire…but he’d much rather stick to drinking it instead of beer at dinner and not thinking about what goes into making it (fermented anything makes him squirm—he can’t even stomach yogurt).

All in all, it’s the best living situation he’s had since he was about fifteen.  He’s terrified it’s all an insane dream fueled by some drug he shouldn’t have taken, and he’ll wake up back at his old place with no friends, no hope, and a killer headache.

That hasn’t happened yet.  The worst that’s happened, in fact, is that he was given the worst room.  Which isn’t even that bad, nor unfair in the slightest.

Unless it’s 8 am on a Saturday and someone’s pounding on the door and screaming.

He stumbles out of bed and down the hall to the door, throwing it open and readying himself to thoroughly bitch out whoever’s out there.  He comes face to face with Eponine, dark tear tracks destroying her makeup as they thread down her cheeks, hand firmly clasped around the arm of her little sister, Azelma.

It’s so unexpected that it takes him a few minutes to react.  He stares at them dumbly for a few moments, trying to process it.  It isn’t that weird that Eponine’s over; she’s visited him a few times since he’s moved in.  What’s weird is how early it is, and the tears, and…the large red mark on Azelma’s left cheek, the imprint of individual fingers clearly visible. 

“What happened?’ he gapes as Eponine, growing impatient, shoves past him and into the hallway.  She slams the door shut behind her.  “He tried to follow,” she explains, still crying a bit. “I’m not sure how far he got.”

“Who?”

“’Parnasse.  _Fucking_ Montparnasse. He hit her.  _He hit Azelma_.”

Grantaire is speechless.  Eponine starts crying harder, and Azelma’s crying too, and this is not something he’s good at, but he knows this is deep, deep shit. Eponine’s been living with Montparnasse since she started college two years ago with minimal incident, aside from the occasional blowout fight.  It’s never gotten physical, and though Grantaire’s opinion of Montparnasse rests somewhere down around his opinion of McDonald’s hamburgers and most politicians, he’s a much better choice than Eponine’s parents, where things definitely _did_ get physical. Eponine dragged Azelma away from them a year ago, much to Montparnasse’s chagrin, but the three of them have been living together ever since without anything terrible happening.

Until now.

Grantaire knows that Eponine will put up with a lot—too much—but it stops if it gets physical.  She went through enough as a kid.  If they’re here, now, and Azelma has a handprint on her face, Grantaire knows Eponine will no longer be living with Montparnasse.

He might not be able to offer a solution, but he can offer coffee and ibuprofen.  He guides them into the kitchen and sits them both down at the beat up table, starts up the coffee maker, and slips into his room to grab some ibuprofen for Azelma. He’s not even sure ibuprofen will help, but he might as well give her something.  Who knew he could be so efficient at 8:15 am?  He’s pretty sure he hasn’t been awake this early since he dropped out. 

Eponine waits to speak until she has coffee in front of her.  She takes a long sip, then fixes Grantaire with an equally long look.  Her eyes are hard, and he can tell she’s gearing herself up for an argument. Not that he’s about to argue with anything she says.

“So I’m not going back there.” The _obviously_ doesn’t need to be said.  “I’ll need to go grab my stuff, and you and Feuilly are going to help me. But I’m not going to worry about that until I figure out where we can live.  No one else can move into Feuilly’s place because his landlord is a dick. Is there still an open room here?”

Grantaire is hesitant to say _yes_ because A) the room that is available here doubles as the house laundry room and everyone has basically given up on renting it. He highly doubts Eponine will be down with people walking in at all hours of the day and night to do their laundry; and B) as much as he loves Eponine, trouble and chaos seem to follow her around wherever she goes and Grantaire.  Well. Grantaire is tired of trouble and chaos and the last few weeks have been so fucking idyllic and he just wants it to continue the way it’s been

Grantaire is also not an asshole.  Or he’s trying really really hard not to be.  So he says yes.

Followed by “But it doubles as the laundry room and you’re gonna hate it.”

Eponine shakes her head forcefully. “I don’t even care. As long as it’s not with him, or any other fucking man who feels as though he has some sort of fucking _say_ over what I do with my life. I can handle laundry. I love laundry.”

“You’re going to hate it,” Grantaire says, because he can’t stop being an asshole all right away, he’s been this way for his entire life and it’s going to take a lot of careful training to break free from it. “But you can talk to Jehan about it.”

Bahorel drags himself into the kitchen, looking like pure death, and pours a cup of coffee.  “Hey Eponine,” he greats.  “What are you talking to Jehan about?”

“Moving in,” says Eponine bluntly. Bahorel nearly drops his coffee cup. “ _Why_?” he asks, then quickly corrects himself.  “I mean.  That would be great.  But why?”

“Montparnasse.” She says.

Bahorel quickly transitions from “tired buff dude” to “very dangerous buff dude”.  Grantaire really likes Bahorel, but he’s still vaguely terrified of him, mostly because the guy could knock him out for a week with a single punch. He’s pretty sure Bahorel likes him too, but he definitely never wants to get on his bad side.

“What did he do?” Bahorel asks. “I will fuck him up for you.”

Eponine laughs hollowly.  “No.  Thanks. But I don’t want anyone to fight my battle for me.  I’ll punch him myself if I decide I want to, but right now all I want is to be done with him and hopefully never see him again.  He’ll have go to buy his own coffeemaker once I take mine away; that’s enough punishment for him.”

Bahorel sits heavily at the table next to Grantaire and sips his coffee thoughtfully while staring at Eponine. “You know our spare room is the laundry room, right?”

“I know.”

“And it’s small, especially for two people.”

“Yep.”

Bahorel shrugs.  “It makes rent cheaper, it gets you away from Montparnasse, and it means we can be more organized when we all go out to the bars.  I’m all for it.  I’ll help you go get your stuff if you want.”

Eponine stretches across the table to peck Bahorel on the cheek.  “You, unlike R, are a excellent gentleman.  Thanks.”

“Hey,” Grantaire protests, “I just said talk to Jehan.”

“Jehan will say yes,” Bahorel points out. “Jehan would say yes to anyone or anything that asks to move in.”

Grantaire sighs and turns to Eponine, taking her hand and holding it dramatically to his chest.  She hates this, he knows.  “Eponine.  I would swoon in pleasure if you moved in.  I valiantly offer my services, alongside Sir Bahorel, to travel to the den of the dragon _Fucking_ Montparnasse to collect your belongings.”

“I hate you, Grantaire.”  Eponine says.  But a slight smile curves on her face, the first he’s seen this morning.

She admits, later that day as they drive away from Montparnasse’s house with a backseat full of her belongings, that she should have left him before.  Grantaire’s personal opinion is that she never should have gotten with him in the first place, but that’s beside the point.  He’d been passed out on the couch, dead drunk, when they tiptoed into the house. The look of disgust on Eponine’s face was enough for Grantaire.

* * *

 In retrospect, both he and Courfeyrac should have noticed something going on with Enjolras.  The dark circles, making coffee every night around seven or eight, slightly panicked complaints about how much he had to do, the fact that he barely even contributed anything beyond reading the agenda at the last meeting—all clues towards what Courf dubbed Freshman year “The Enjolras Self Destruction Routine”, which normally arises around finals.  Except it isn’t finals, it’s only midterms.  Still, Combeferre spends enough time watching and thinking about Enjolras that he’s pretty ashamed he didn’t notice anything before Enjolras passes out in the kitchen. 

Fortunately, Combeferre is there when it happens. Unfortunately, he doesn’t move fast enough to stop Enjolras’ head from glancing off the counter as he falls.

Courf isn’t home, but his car keys are on the counter next to the coffee pot.  In his panic, Combeferre scoops Enjolras up, puts him in the backseat of Courf’s car, and drives to the emergency room.

He’s more than halfway to a panic attack by the time they’re halfway to the hospital, knuckles white on the steering wheel, trying desperately to control his breathing.  Because what’s the number one rule of dealing with a medical emergency?  Don’t move the injured person unless they’re in immediate danger due to their location. _Especially_ don’t move someone who just passed out for no discernable reason and hit their head.  Combeferre might have just killed his best friend and the love of his life.  His mind is filled with a litany of _ohmygodohmygodohmygod_ , and he’s so distracted he nearly runs two red lights. When he hears his name he thinks he’s hallucinating.

“’Ferre…what are we doing?”

Enjolras is awake and trying to prop himself up on his elbow in the backseat. Blood runs in a thin trickle down the middle of his forehead.  Combeferre might be sick.

“What day is it?” he demands.

Enjolras looks confused.  “October…12th?”

It’s the 13th.  Combeferre tries not to panic.  Enjolras tends to lose track of time when he’s overworked. “How old are you?” he tries.

“21.”  Enjolras says promptly. 

“Good.  What’s my name?”

“Combeferre!  What’s going on?”

“You passed out.  I’m taking you to the hospital.  Do you feel paralyzed?”  Yes, that sentence actually comes out of his mouth.  _Do you feel paralyzed_. He’s never going to become a doctor.

“No!  ‘Ferre, you sound like you can barely breathe, pull over.”

“No.”  They’re almost at the hospital.

“I’m fine.  My head just hurts.”

“You passed out for no reason and hit your head. And then I moved you. We’re going to the hospital and they’re going to look at you and you’re _going to let them_ , so help me.”  He can feel the sting of tears at the corner of his eyes and he swipes at them angrily, upsetting his glasses.  “You _passed out_ ,” he says again, like Enjolras doesn’t know by now. 

“ _Combeferre_.” Enjolras tries to sit up and shift forward, but falls back with a wince.  “Dizzy.  Shit.”

Enjolras hardly ever swears.  Combeferre’s never been so glad to see a building as he is to see the hospital on the next block.

Enjolras accepts Combeferre’s assistance to walk into the emergency room with surprising grace.  This worries him more.  At this point, he’s visibly shaking and he hopes the emergency room staff don’t mistake him for the one who’s injured.

Enjolras takes charge when the get to the front desk, despite the fact he’s leaning heavily on Combeferre and still has blood trickling down his forehead.  “I passed out and hit my head.  Just here to make sure everything’s fine.”  The receptionist looks vaguely alarmed as a drop of blood lands on the counter in front of her.

“Probable concussion,” Combeferre adds because _come on_ , Enjolras. “Also definite exhaustion and malnutrition.”

“Hey, no—“ Enjolras tries to protest. Combeferre fixes him with a glare— _the_ glare, patented “The Laser Glasses Ice Queen Death Glower” by Courfeyrac—the only thing he can do that is _guaranteed_ to make Enjolras shut up.

Enjolras shuts up.

The receptionist hands over a wad of Kleenex for Enjolras’ head and motions for them to take a seat.  “It shouldn’t be too long,” she says, eyes lingering on the dark circles beneath Enjolras’ eyes, “We’ll want to get you looked at right away.”

Combeferre is still trembling as he attempts to text Courf.  He can’t hit the right keys. Why are they so damn small? Why won’t his fingers stay steady? He can hear his breathing, but he can’t seem to control it.  It’s like it’s coming from another person.  Enjolras is slumped on his shoulder, holding the Kleenex to his forehead, looking like he’s about to pass out again.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he says as his phone autocorrects “ER” to “ET” for the tenth time.  Does the stupid piece of machinery _seriously_ think he’s talking about concussions and the 1982 film in the same sentence? 

“I know,” says Enjolras crossly. “You don’t need to text Courf. I’m _fine_.”

 _I’m not_ , Combeferre wants to say.  In truth, he wants Courf here because he wants to give up responsibility to someone else and then go lock himself in a bathroom and cry for a few hours. He doesn’t say this. He doesn’t say anything.

Enjolras’ hand closes over his own. His heartbeat, traitorous as it is, ricochets up a few notches.  “ _”Ferre_ ,” Enjolras says.  “It’s okay.  I’ll be fine. I am fine.”

“I moved you,” he whispers, mouth dry, eyes burning. He finally sends the text. The damn thing still says “ET”, but he hopes Courf will figure it out through context.  “I know how to deal with stuff like this. It’s what I’m going to school for. But I panicked and moved you and I could’ve killed you.”

“You didn’t,” Enjolras’ hand tightens on his. “I’ll be fine.”

 “We don’t know that yet,” he mumbles back.  “And besides, it’s a mistake you _can’t make_. You just can’t.” There’s a sharp pain on his hand. His fist is clenched so tight his fingernails are cutting into his skin.  He tries to relax it.  He can’t.

“Combeferre, I—“ Enjolras starts. He’s interrupted by a nurse calling his name.  They won’t let him walk back—they make him sit in a wheelchair.  The glower on his face _almost_ makes the situation humorous.

A nurse hesitates as they take him back. “Are you family? She asks.  As though they look anything alike.

“No.  A friend. Roommate.”

“Okay.  If you stick around we’ll let you know what we know as soon as we take a look at him. Feel free to get some coffee or something.  Don’t worry.” She squeezes his shoulder briefly before walking off.  He really must look terrible.  He slumps further in the uncomfortable waiting room chair and covers his face with his hands. Tries to breathe. Tries to think. Can’t. He hasn’t had a panic attack in over a year. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want it.

But flowing through his mind like the loop of an old film is everything he’s ever learned about first aid and head injuries and trauma. Don’t move the patient. Don’t move the patient. Immobilize the neck. Enjolras’ head, lolling backwards as Combeferre ran out to the car.  Hairline fractures in the vertebrae, cracked open by movement. Paralysis. Death.  Broken bones. Don’t move the patient. He didn’t even try to support Enjolras’ neck.  Keep them still and call 911. Keep them still until you can figure out a way to move them without jostling the head and neck. Check for other injuries. Don’t move them.

In the rapidly shrinking rational part of his brain, Combeferre knows that Enjolras doesn’t and didn’t have a spinal cord injury.  The way he fell makes it extremely improbable.  But it’s the principle of the thing.  It’s the blind panic he felt when he watched him fall, the instinct to pick him up and get him to the hospital as quickly as possible, the kneejerk reaction. Doctors can’t have kneejerk reactions, not even when it’s their friends who are injured.  Doctors have to separate their emotions and their instincts from what they _know_ they have to do. Or they could kill or further injure their patients.  Doctors have lives in their hands.  Doctors have to know what to do logically to save those lives.

Many who know him may say that Combeferre seems emotionless in emotional situations.  Enjolras and Courfeyrac often turn to him for the analytical, logical opinion; the solution that may satisfy both sides of an emotional issue. And he’s _good_ at that.  He can see past emotion, see the logic behind everything.  But when it comes to his friends, when it comes to _Enjolras_ , when it comes to the very idea of carrying someone else’s life in his hands, he can’t.  He can’t do it.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, and he doesn’t know how he looks from the outside.  Tears prick at his eyes and he’s still trembling and he still can’t quite breathe right and his thoughts circle around and around and around. Don’t move them. Enjolras’ head lolling back. Don’t move them. The sharp snap of bones cracking.

“Combeferre.”

Someone’s saying his name, but he can’t look up because if he looks up everyone will see he’s crying and shaking.

A hand on his shoulder.  “Combeferre, look at me.  Is it Enjolras?  Is he okay?”

He realizes how this must look to Courfeyrac, who only knows that Combeferre took Enjolras to the ER and thinks he has a concussion. He fights to breathe.

“He’s fine.  He should be fine.  They’re checking him out now.”  It comes out muffled and broken, but at least it comes out.

“Are _you_ okay?”

He can’t say anything. He shakes his head ever so slightly—probably hard to see given it’s still buried in his hands.

“You’re not.  It’s not your fault, ‘Ferre, you know he get’s like this. You did the right thing.”

“I _didn’t_ —“ he gasps out, finally raising his head.  He can barely see Courfeyrac through the tears and the fact that his glasses are completely fogged up, but he can sense the concern radiating from him. “I moved him, Courf, I could’ve—“

“I can’t understand you, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac says, moving closer, crouching in front of him.  He recoils slightly.  Courf’s too close.  He doesn't deserve comfort.  “You need to breathe, you’re panicking.”

He wants to say, _I know_.  He wants to say, _I’m trying_.

Footsteps come towards them.  Hazily, he makes out the form of a nurse.

“Hello,” she says cautiously. She’s looking at him with some concern. “Are you all here for Mr…Picasso?” He notices the air of disbelief in her voice as she says the name.  Enjolras spends at least 10% of his life assuring people that he is of no relation to the artist.  “It’s a common Spanish name!” he’ll insist over and over again while people look at him with disbelief. Combeferre knows he’s strongly considering adopting his mother’s surname instead, or just making up a new one entirely. “It’s not like I _want_ a link to my family,” he’s said.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac answers, standing up. “I’m his other roommate. You can tell me.”

“Is he all right?” Combeferre interrupts. He knows he must look terrible, and he knows that he’s not in the mental state to hear the full details, but he has to know.

“He’ll be fine, sir,” says the nurse obligingly. “Just a minor concussion.”

He slumps back into the chair and covers his face again, relieved.  Courfeyrac walks a few steps away to talk with the nurse.  He’s probably crying again.  Maybe he never stopped.

Someone sits down next to him, a warm presence. A gentle hand rests on his shoulder.

“Hey Combeferre,” it’s a rough, low voice he doesn’t immediately recognize.  “Can you breathe with me?”

Yes, he can do that.  The person is breathing deep and slow, loud and deliberate enough to hear over Combeferre’s own gasps. He tries to match them.

“Good,” the person says, and only then does the voice click.  Grantaire. What’s he doing here? Did he come with Courfeyrac? He must have.  But why did Courfeyrac bring him.  Oh God, are he and Enjolras an actual thing? It can’t be.  He would have heard.  Enjolras would have told him.  They’ve only known each other a month, they’ve never even talked.  His breathing rhythm falters and breaks.  He can almost hear the frown in Grantaire’s voice when he speaks. “Hey, no, stay with me. Breathe.  Can I touch you?”

He wants to say no, he’s fine, he doesn’t need help. Unfortunately, human touch always did help him—Courfeyrac or Enjolras holding him close while he fought to regain breath and rational thought and return to reality.  So he nods, and feels Grantaire’s arm creep around to wrap around his shoulders.  “You’re okay, Combeferre. Just breathe.”

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but Grantaire gives him all the time he needs, sitting quietly and breathing until Combeferre’s own breath is under control and the tears have stopped burning his eyes and he can think somewhat coherently again.  “What are you doing here?” is the first thing he says to Grantaire, which doesn’t sound very grateful, but Grantaire takes it in stride.

“I was at the Musain and Courfeyrac was too, working on homework.  He came over and we started talking about art and he was trying to convince me to start designing flyers and pamphlets for your group when he got your text.  I had Bahorel’s car because I was picking up some supplies and running some errands for the house, so I offered to drive so he could get here earlier.”

“Oh,” Combeferre takes a few breaths. “Okay.”  It appears he and Enjolras are not in a previously unknown relationship after all.  Crisis averted. “Thank you,” he remembers to add.

Grantaire shrugs, pulling out an old flip phone and firing off a text to someone with impressive speed.  “I get them a lot.  I’d like to think I know how to help by now.”

“You do,” he says.  “Thanks.”

He twists around, searching for Courfeyrac, but doesn’t see him.  Grantaire seems to know what he’s looking for and answers his question before he asks it. “Courfeyrac’s back with Enjolras. You can probably go back if you want to.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.  Just a mild concussion, combined with sleep deprivation and low blood sugar. They’re going to let him go home tonight, though, just keeping him for observation for a couple more hours.”

Combeferre still feels the stirrings of panic when he thinks about how he handled things, but relief and his own exhaustion quickly overwhelm it.  He wants to curl up and sleep for weeks.

Grantaire nudges him.  “Go on.  The nurse’ll tell you what room to go to.”

He stands shakily and is relieved to find that his legs are no longer trembling and seem to be holding his weight better than they were previously.  “You can come, too,” he says to Grantaire.

Grantaire smiles wryly, a self-deprecatory twist to his mouth that turns his entire face ugly and angry. “I don’t think Enjolras would be thrilled to see me.  I’ll wait out here, just in case you guys need anything else.”

He doesn’t have the strength to argue. So instead he says “thanks” one last time and walks away.

* * *

 That night, Enjolras lies on the couch with a glass of juice Courfeyrac is forcing him to drink.  His eyes keep darting over to where he left his laptop on the kitchen table, but both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sitting watching him to make sure he doesn’t make a move towards it.  “No work,” Courfeyrac said as they helped him into the flat. “No work for the rest of today and all of tomorrow.  _No arguing with me, Enjolras_.  You’re going to sleep.  Tomorrow’s Sunday, anyway, you need to _take a break_.” Then Courfeyrac gave his own version of the death glare, and Enjolras gave up arguing, though he clearly wasn’t happy about it.

Now they’re both sitting in front of Enjolras, staring at him.  Enjolras stares back. Nobody’s said anything yet, but they’re already arguing.

“We need to talk,” Combeferre begins. “You are not allowed to keep doing this to yourself, and to us.  You need to cool down.  You need to _do less_.”  He knows this line of argument will not get through to Enjolras, but he’s going to say it anyway.  “You’re too busy. And we,” he gestures to Courfeyrac “know that you can’t cool down with school or your classes, so you’re going to cool it with Les Amis.”

Courfeyrac takes over.  “You know we’re both capable of handling things with the club, and you know we’re happy to take on more responsibility—not to mention we’re both taking at least two fewer classes than you are—so you’re going to let us take on some of the upcoming events and worry about the logistics and planning. Okay?”

Enjolras is already shaking his head. “No, there’s tons of important stuff coming up, we need to start planning for the climate conference and for Pride in the spring, and I think we need to be a bigger part of the student activism conference than we were last year, I can’t just _quit_ —“

“We’re not _asking_ you to quit,” Combeferre interrupts.  “We’re asking you to take a step back.  To not be the primary organizer and planner of every single event when you have two people who are just as up to speed on club matters and current events as you are, not to mention nine other people who are eager to do anything they can to help.”

“The climate conference, for example,” Courfeyrac says. “That’s your number one concern right now, right?  And your number one stressor. And plans for that have barely even begun.  Let us take care of it. Do your thing, offer advice, give the speeches since we all know you’re the best orator of us all. But let us organize it and print the flyers and get the permits and talk to the professors and the politicians and rally the troops, okay?  Just focus on passing your classes without literally killing yourself.”

In reality, Combeferre is slightly concerned about leaving Enjolras out of the planning and organization.  He’s definitely good at it, and the main reason why most of their events go as smoothly as they do is due to his perfectionist planning methods. But still.  If Enjolras insists on remaining as insanely overcommitted as he is now, he’s going to end up passed out on the kitchen floor with something much worse than a mild concussion.

Enjolras looks for a long moment like he’s going to argue.  Instead he sighs and lifts his hand to rub at his eyes.  “I’m so tired,” he says quietly. 

Combeferre leans forward and touches Enjolras’ shoulder lightly. His pale, pinched face, the dark circles under his eyes, the four stitches that hold together the cut on his forehead—the entire picture makes Combeferre feel like he’s been punched in the stomach.

“I can’t watch you do this to yourself,” he says to Enjolras quietly.  “Please let us help.”

Enjolras closes his eyes and nods. Beside him, Courfeyrac sighs and drops a hand briefly to rub Combeferre’s back, then goes into the kitchen. The unease in Combeferre’s stomach rolls.  He feels nauseous. They won the argument with Enjolras without even having to argue.  He still feels like he’s lost.

 


	4. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Have a long chapter!  
> At this point, it may be wise to completely disregard any previous mention of an update schedule cause it's just gonna happen when it happens.  
> Chapter warning: mentions of transphobia.

NOVEMBER 

Grantaire’s life has settled into a semblance of a routine. He wakes up—usually between nine and ten, earlier than he has since he dropped out of college. It’s amazing what not being hungover can do for your willingness to get out of bed in the morning. He drinks some coffee. He goes to the garden and harvests stuff, or, more recently, pulls stuff out of the ground to throw on the compost heap. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Jehan is around too and they work together. Jehan teaches him about crop rotations and planting garlic and why throwing dead leaves into the compost and mixing it vigorously with shovels is important. Recently, Cosette taught him how to pickle, and so sometimes he spends the afternoons pickling random assortments of root vegetables in increasingly inventive vinegar and spice mixtures. And sometimes, he paints.

Actually, a lot of the time he paints—more than he has in what seems like years. He paints portraits of his housemates for practice. He paints the garden and the silhouette of the mountains on the horizon behind the city. He’s lost a bit of his technique, but it comes back to him gradually. And he finds he doesn’t mind the rough quality of the paintings as much as he thought he would—he was always overly critical of his own work, but now that the pressure of turning pieces in for a grade or trying to sell them has lifted he finds himself having a lot more fun.

The other part of the routine, the really unbelievable thing, is that he’s making friends. Everyone in the house seems to genuinely like him, or at least seems willing to give him a chance. Jehan is delighted to have a willing garden apprentice, and piles knowledge of plants and soil ecology and sustainability into Grantaire’s brain until he thinks it might burst. Jehan’s also usually awake at 3 AM and happy to discuss principles of Nihilism or Frida Kahlo's early work when Grantaire can't sleep. Joly likes to talk to him about drugs—not in a freaky “I love drugs way”, but in an “I’m genuinely interested in how this chemical affects the human body and please tell me all the gory details” way. Funnily enough, Grantaire finds talking to him about it easy, finds himself reliving some of the worst experiences of his life without feeling bitter or scared any more. He and Bossuet have waged a pun-war with a complicated point system for the last month. Musichetta likes to talk to him about literature, and Halloween was particularly memorable because it culminated in a discussion with her and Jehan about _The Master and Margarita_ that had them all up till dawn, eating peppermint patties and miniature snickers bars leftover from trick-or-treaters.

Cosette and Bahorel both like to cook—bake, mainly, and Grantaire learns two recipes for vegan pumpkin chocolate chip bread and a chocolate chip cookie recipe that he had to swear to never share “unless all members of the sacred order of the chocolate chip agree that the novice deserves to know the recipe”, as Cosette puts it. Which indicates that all members of said society decided _he_ was worthy of the recipe, which makes him feel happier than he has in ages.

It might just be because Grantaire is a good cook, if he wants to be honest with himself, and that he made his special Pad Thai the night after he moved in. Which was definitely a calculated move to try to win everyone’s hearts. The surprising thing is that it appears to have worked.

It’s late one morning, after the gardening but before he starts cooking and/or painting. He’s nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and scrolling through recent Onion articles on his phone when Bahorel wanders into the kitchen.

“Hey, man,” he greats, dropping into a chair across from Grantaire. He waves Grantaire’s copy of _The Master and Margarita_ in the air. “Can I borrow this?”

“Yeah, sure,” Grantaire replies. “One of my favorites.”

Bahorel snorts. “Yeah, I heard you and Musichetta nerding out over it on Halloween. I gotta get up to speed I guess.”

“You’ll like it. It’s wild and barely makes any sense and there’s a giant talking cat who shoots people and lots of deep biblical allegories.”

“Damn,” Bahorel says, sounding impressed.

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, man,” Bahorel continues. “When I went in your room to grab this, I saw something you’ve been hiding from me.”

Shit. Fuck. What’s he done wrong?

“You have,” Bahorel says, leaning close and glaring a bit, “ _climbing shoes_.”

Oh. “Oh. Yeah.”

“ _I didn’t know you climbed_.”

Bahorel, Grantaire learned early in their acquaintance, is one of those rock climbers who lives and breathes for climbing. His entire life revolves around it—literally. He’s already been in school for seven years, and it’s because he started as pre-law, made it to the first semester of his senior year, and dropped out to go climb in Peru for six months. When he came back he changed his major to recreation management and environmental education, and now he manages the climbing wall on campus. The walls of his room are completely papered with photos of people—he and his climbing buddies—climbing giant slabs of ice on the sides of mountains, sheer cliffs, sandstone towers, and even a few redwoods. In retrospect, Grantaire probably should have told him about his history with climbing. It would have been a point of similarity, at the very least.

The thing is, Grantaire doesn’t consider himself to be a _climber_. It was one of his parent’s schemes, something they forced him into when he was fourteen and started smoking weed, in an effort to make him well rounded and away from other drugs. It didn’t work, considering most of the people on the climbing team smoked more than he did, but he did end up enjoying himself enough to keep at it casually. He hasn’t gone since he dropped out, though. He hasn’t done a lot of things since he dropped out.

“Yeah,” he says again. “I…used to.”

“Dude,” Bahorel says. “You’ve gotta come to the wall sometime. Belay me, I’m always stuck sitting at the desk during my shifts.”

Grantaire’s not sure he can remember how to climb, let alone belay anyone. “Sure. Sometime. Maybe.” He’s not sincere at all.

“Look,” Bahorel says. “You got any plans today?”

“Not really. Just garden stuff, I told Jehan I’d finish up the garlic today…”

“Nah, man, you can do that tomorrow. I’ll help you. Let’s go to the wall! You got a harness?”

“Yeah, somewhere. But I haven’t climbed in forever, I’m not sure how good I’ll be anymore.”

Bahorel shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It comes back to you.”

What the hell, Grantaire thinks. If this is his life now—happy, wholesome, gardening and cooking—why not start back up with some healthy, wholesome exercise, too? Maybe if he completely exhausts himself on the wall during the day he’ll stop dreaming about Enjolras’ goddamn stupid blue eyes at night.

Not that he’s dreaming about Enjolras. _He’s met him once._

Which is how he finds himself stranded halfway up a 5.9 with no recollection of how his body is supposed to move, sweaty hands about to slide off the very solid holds he’s gripping. Bahorel shouts encouragement from below. He wants to die. When he was at his best, he could climb a 5.12. A 5.12b was the best he ever did in a gym. And now he can’t even haul himself up a measly 5.9? Damn it.

He makes it up, eventually, but feels thoroughly defeated by the time he comes down. Bahorel slaps him on the back, says “don’t worry, it’ll come back quick”, and proceeds to climb a 5.11 as his warm up. Grantaire leaves the gym feeling more down in the dumps than he reasonably should, and decides to take a walk downtown to the art supply store. Not that he has any money to buy anything, but standing in the middle of aisles of art supplies with the smell of turpentine in his nose reminds him of being in the studio, relaxing him no matter what shit’s happening in his life.

Next to the art supply store is a new and used bookshop that Grantaire’s never set foot in, but as he passes by he suddenly remembers Feuilly’s birthday, which is coming up at the end of November. Feuilly’s obsessed with this surrealist Japanese author, someone Grantaire can never remember, who’s just come out with a new novel. He thinks about the sorry state of his bank account, and then he thinks about how he basically has Feuilly to thank for his current housing situation. He goes inside the bookstore.

He tries fruitlessly to find the book without having to ask for help, but he can’t for the life of him remember whether the author’s name starts with an ‘M’ or a ‘T’, so he eventually makes his way to the desk in the back to ask the guy for help. Then he has to violently resist the urge to run in the opposite direction, because the man sitting behind the desk is Combeferre.

Not that he doesn’t like Combeferre. Combeferre seems like a perfectly nice person. But Grantaire hasn’t shown his face at a meeting since he met Combeferre, and Combeferre seems like the type of guy to expect more from people. Grantaire’s never been good at fulfilling expectations. Not to mention, the last time he saw him he was talking him down from a panic attack and Combeferre hardly seemed aware that it was Grantaire comforting him.

To his surprise, though, Combeferre smiles at him. It seems genuine. “Grantaire! How have you been? How’s the house?”

It takes him a moment, but he stammers out a “Good! G-great. Yeah. I didn’t know you worked here?”

Combeferre laughs darkly. “Yes, my deep dark secret. My parents think I’m interning at the hospital this semester, but I couldn’t give this job up.” 

“It’s a nice bookstore.”

“It’s the best bookstore,” Combeferre answers earnestly, as though this is common knowledge. “Did you come in looking for something in particular?”

“Um, yeah. Feuilly likes this Japanese author, he just came out with a new book—“

“Murakami,” Combeferre says immediately. “He’s excellent.” He gets up and beckons at Grantaire to follow him. “Have you read anything by him?”

He shakes his head, then realizes Combeferre can’t see him. “No. Feuilly keeps telling me to, I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

Combeferre stops and pulls a small hardback off the shelf, handing it to Grantaire. “You’re lucky, we just got in a used copy and it’s much cheaper than buying it new, though if you’d rather we have a few new copies too. Anyway, I’d highly recommend reading him. He’s very surrealist—if you like Kafka or Vonnegut, you’d love him. _Kafka on the Shore_ is his best, in my opinion, but most people like to start with _The Windup Bird Chronicle_ or _Norwegian Wood_ —“ he cuts himself off abruptly, blushing and staring at the floor. “I—sorry. I go off on stuff like this a bit. Do you even like reading?”

“I—yeah, I love books.”

Combeferre looks horrified. “That made it sound like I don’t think you seem like the type of person who likes books, I didn’t mean that at all, I’m so sorry—“

“No, no,” Grantaire reassures him. “I didn’t take it like that. I appreciate your recommendations, too. I tend to read more classics than modern fiction.”

“Classics are generally better than modern fiction,” Combeferre says earnestly. “That’s why they’re classics. You could say you’re just saving time by reading the best.”

“It leaves out some good discoveries, though.”

Combeferre shrugs. “I have a lot of modern fiction laying around. Feel free to borrow anything you like, any time. I have a lot of Murakami if you’re interested in him.”

Grantaire follows him back to the cash register and hands over some rumpled bills to pay for the book. As Combeferre counts out the change, Grantaire decides to bite the bullet.

“How’s Enjolras?” he asks timidly.

Combeferre sighs. “He made it through midterms alive. He’s too busy, though, and tired all the time. But okay. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah, I mean…I want him to be okay, too.” Is that too obvious? Can Combeferre read between the lines to decode the “because I’m desperately attracted to him and the bottom of my stomach dropped through the floor when Courfeyrac got your text at that coffee shop?” that’s tacked wordlessly onto the end of his statement?

Apparently not. Combeferre only sighs. “Thanks for your help that day,” he says, then blushes and looks down. “And thanks…you know…for helping me out.”

“Anytime,” Grantaire says quietly, taking the book and tucking it into his bag under the climbing equipment. “I’m sorry.”

Combeferre shrugs. “It happens,” he says with forced cheerfulness. “No big deal.”

“It still sucks.”

Combeferre’s eyes remain fixed on the desk in front of him. “Yeah,” he says quietly. He seems lost in thought for a moment. Grantaire isn’t sure if the conversation is over or not, whether he should say goodbye and leave.

Combeferre clears his throat and looks up just as Grantaire is about to say “well, bye” and make an escape. “Courfeyrac said you draw beautifully. He was going on and on about it.”

Grantaire was hoping Courfeyrac’s delight over his art would be eclipsed by Enjolras’ concussion and not mentioned to anyone else in their circle. No such luck. “Yeah,” he mumbles, dropping his gaze. “It was my major. So. Yeah.”

“Well he said you’re amazing. Hey, listen,” Grantaire lifts his eyes to meet Combeferre’s, and recognizes a blazing intensity that he’s sure means trouble. “Courf and I are…er… _restricting_ Enjolras’ involvement with the ABC, at least until he gets a bit of free time. We’re planning the next rally, in January, and we really need to get some eye-catching posters and flyers distributed soon. The last person who did postering was not… _reliable_ , so to say. Would you…maybe design them for us?”

Grantaire’s instinct tells him to yell “NO” and run. He suppresses it, and manages to come out with “I don’t know if I’m the best choice for that sort of thing” coupled with a very strained smile.

Combeferre just looks confused. Honestly, has he not even noticed Grantaire’s continued absence from the meetings even after actually making friends with 90% of the attendees?

“I mean…I don’t want you to feel obligated or pressured, I just think we could use someone who can create something artistic and interesting, rather than…you know, clip art and Google images. The rally’s for the climate action convention that’s going on in January, you know? If you’re interested in that sort of thing?”

No, he wants to say, I am not interested. I’m not interested because it’s hopeless and nothing’s going to change and we’re all going to die and it makes me sad when I think about it so I do everything I can not to.

He doesn’t say this. “I’m just…not super involved with the group, you know? I’m not sure if I’m qualified.”

Combeferre shrugs. “You don’t have to be coming to the meetings to design the poster. You’ve got free reign as long as it has the time and date somewhere on it.” Combeferre looks at him pleadingly—and damn, that man has some fierce puppy dog eyes. Grantaire wouldn’t have expected that. “Just think about it? Please?”

He literally cannot say no. “Okay. I’ll think about it.” At least he’s not saying yes straight up.

“Wonderful,” Combeferre says, clasping his hands together and grinning. “You really would be saving us.”

A guilt trip, too. Good. At this point Grantaire accepts the fact that he’ll probably be drawing up some designs for a poster whether he likes it or not.

“Hey,” Combeferre says, “On a completely different and slightly awkward note, I have your hat at my apartment. The green beanie? You left it at the Corinth at the meeting back in September? I keep meaning to bring it to the meetings and give it to Bahorel or something to give it to you, but I always forget.”

“Oh!” Grantaire’s hand flies to his head. He was wondering where that hat got to, figured it had just been lost in the midst of moving. It was his favorite hat, though, and he’d held off buying another in the stubborn belief he’d unearth it in his room somewhere. “I—thanks.”

Combeferre winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that. But I’m closing up here in five minutes, and my place is right around the block. If you want to stick around, you can just come pick it up. I guarantee I’ll keep forgetting to bring it to meetings, so you might want to get it before it’s too late.”

He smiles in spite of himself. “Yeah…I mean, if you don’t mind. I’ll just grab it really quick.”

“Of course.” Combeferre stands and flips the sign on the window from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’, then starts counting the money in the till. “Just give me a few.”

Grantaire passes the time looking at the “new arrivals” table and reading the backs of several books that sound completely uninteresting. Eventually, Combeferre flips the light off and pulls on his coat. “Let’s go.” He locks the door and slides the key behind a flap in the awning above the door. “Promise you won’t break in,” he says when he sees Grantaire looking.

“I promise,” he says solemnly, holding out his pinkie finger. Combeferre hooks it in his own with a little laugh and shakes vigorously.

* * *

 

Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras live in a little flat in a brownstone building two blocks down from the bookshop. They have a view of the river and the tower of the university administration building out their window. There are books _everywhere_. Grantaire feels simultaneously like he might laugh and throw up from nerves. Because it’s too fucking perfect, that the three of them live in this idyllic little old-fashioned flat; exactly the kind of place he’d imagine Combeferre with his glasses and books and collared shirts to live. But this is also where Enjolras lives, and—well, he’s not actually sure why that makes him feel so nervous, but it does. He feels like Enjolras is judging him from afar, and he studiously avoids eye contact with the bookcase.

It turns out Enjolras isn’t home, but Courfeyrac greets them in the kitchen as they walk in.

“Grantaire! Good to see you! Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something, actually; I think your art would be really good on our posters, if you wanted to think about designing something—“

“I already told him, Courf,” Combeferre says quietly, passing him and heading through a doorway that Grantaire assumes must be his bedroom. Courfeyrac turns back to him eagerly. His big brown eyes are literally sparkling and Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever met a group of people who have mastered puppy dog eyes as well as this lot. “Well?” Courfeyrac asks, “What do you think?”

“I said I’d think about it,” he answers. Courfeyrac envelops him in a hug before he can finish. “Brilliant,” Courfeyrac says, “excellent. The sooner the better, but no pressure. This is great!”

Combeferre returns to the kitchen and hands Grantaire his hat. “It’s been a long time,” he tells it before replacing it on his curls. Red-faced, Combeferre apologizes again while Courfeyrac snickers.

“Thanks again, Combeferre, I appreciate it. I’ll let you know about the posters.” He starts edging for the door. Courfeyrac darts forward and grabs a handful of his sweatshirt before he can retreat even a foot. “Wait, wait, wait. I’ve been _dying_ to ask your advice on something. Look, you know Enjolras, right?”

“Barely.”

“Whatever. You’ve _heard_ about him. Hell, you were there the day he collapsed. He works too hard. He’s too focused on school and his steadfast determination to save the world. He needs…a _distraction_.” Courfeyrac’s voice dips low and he looks at Grantaire from beneath his eyelashes. Grantaire can tell this won’t be good, a concern that is immediately backed up by Combeferre’s loud groan as he sits down at the table and puts his head in his hands. “Not this again, Courf, please,” he mumbles from behind his fingers. Courfeyrac waves him off and continues.

“He doesn’t _want_ to have fun. We go out, we have fun, we party a bit, and we’re all still passing our classes and living perfectly respectable lives, right? We need to get him to come with us and _relax_ a bit, you know?”

“How am I supposed to help with this?” Grantaire asks. “I have literally never talked to Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac waves that away too. “Not a big deal. You’re new, he’s intrigued. And he’s always willing to make friends if he thinks they’ll be a help to the ABC. Wait ‘till we tell him you’re doing the posters.”

“I’m not—“

“I’ve already talked to ‘Ferre about this. Enjolras needs a distraction. He needs some fun. He needs some _action_ , for the love of God.”

“Wow,” says Grantaire. He can’t believe this is happening. “I so incredibly can’t help you with this.”

Then—a thought strikes him. “Wait—you’re telling me Enjolras is _single_?”

The first time he’d seen Enjolras he’d assumed the man was being courted by at least seven different people. Throughout the course of the evening, he’d come to the conclusion that he and Combeferre were together. The way Combeferre looked at him, the way they worked together seamlessly as they ran the meeting. They’d left together, talking quietly with their heads bent together. Combeferre’s panic when Enjolras was at the hospital. Not to mention how everyone seemed to refer to them as a single entity—“enjolrasandcombeferre”, as though they were one and the same, always together, always one.

And it’s _fine_. They’re obviously a perfect power couple, running the ABC and changing the world together. It’s not as though he’s jealous. He just can’t help daydreaming about Enjolras’ eyes every so often.

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac is laughing. He puts a hand on Grantaire’s arm and looks him in the eye.

“I live with Enjolras,” he says, “and all I can tell you is that I’ve never seen him show passion towards anyone besides the full-page photo of Karl Marx in his 19th century philosophy textbook.”

Beside them, Combeferre lets out a loud groan and faceplants on the kitchen table, nearly upsetting a coffee mug. A flash of guilt passes over Courfeyrac’s face. “I mean that…not in a weird way.”

“Stop talking,” Combeferre says. “Please.”

“Sorry, sorry,” says Courfeyrac, sounding anything but. “Anyway, Grantaire, you don’t have to _do_ anything, you just have to join in the peer pressure pushing Enjolras towards participating in Fun Activities. He’ll be intrigued; he’ll want to talk to you. It would help if you came to meetings, which you should do anyway because I for one would be delighted to have you around more often.”

It’s an overload of information cascading into Grantaire’s already tired brain, so all he does is nod dumbly and say “Sure, I’d better be going.” Courfeyrac nods and gives him a hug and Combeferre drags himself up from his seat at the table to walk him to the door. 

“Sorry if he scared you away,” Combeferre mumbles as Grantaire steps out the door. “He has a tendency to be…overexcited. Slightly. But he is right—I think everyone would be pleased to see you at meetings.”

“I don’t have anything to offer at meetings, Combeferre,” Grantaire says, feeling slightly fed up.

“The operative words are ‘see you’. The meetings are mostly social, anyhow, it’s just an excuse for us to get together, drink beer, and talk. Just think about it, okay?”

Grantaire nods one last time, slightly dumbfounded. What in the world did he do to make these people want to see more of him? He helps Jehan garden and once showed Courf his sketchbook, that’s literally it. This is all so strange.

“Thanks for the hat back,” he remembers to say one last time before the door closes and he’s left alone standing in the hall trying to figure out what in the world this day has been.

* * *

 

When Grantaire gets home, most of the house is eating dinner. He helps himself to a bowl of Bossuet’s spicy vegan corn chili (a surprising concoction consisting entirely of corn, beans, canned tomatoes, and ten entire cayenne peppers—any lack of dairy or meat is completely eclipsed by the intense pain caused by eating it), and sits down next to Musichetta. They’re all engaged in a conversation that seems to be primarily concerned with the climate rally in January. Ten minutes later, Jehan interrupts the conversation and addresses Grantaire.

“I’d meant to ask, R, did ‘Ferre or Courf talk to you about designing the flyers and posters? I was supposed to, but I kept forgetting.”

Grantaire clears his throat and tries to speak around the burning in his mouth. Maybe he’s just weak, because everyone else seems to be making their way through the chili without any problems. “Yeah. They both talked to me about it today, actually.”

Jehan stares at him. “And?”

“I told them I’d think about it.”

Eponine pushes her bowl away from her and stretches in her seat. “Do it, R. You know you miss designing stuff, and you’ll make a great poster.” She looks around at the rest of the table. “He used to do designs for bands and stuff, you know, for shows when they came to town.”

Cosette turns to him. “Really? When? I remember a couple of years ago there were some really good posters for shows at the Lumière—I stole a few off notice boards and things, they’re still up in my room.”

He winces inwardly. He’s never been in Cosette’s room, but that’s the right venue and the right time period. “Yeah, those are probably mine.”

Cosette sits up straighter. “R! They’re beautiful. You _have_ to do the posters! Your art—it draws the eye, it’ll make people look, it’ll force people to pay attention!”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, swirling his spoon in the remainder of his chili. “I said I’d think about it. I’ll probably draw up some designs and if you all think they’re any good we can go from there.”

“They’ll be good,” Cosette says firmly at the same time that Eponine says “don’t act so modest R, you know they’ll be good.” They look at each other and giggle. “Jinx,” Cosette says.

“We didn’t say the same thing!”

“We said the same _concept_ , it counts…”

They giggle again. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever heard Eponine giggle before. What a weird day.

“I’m sure they’ll be brilliant, R,” Jehan says dreamily, twirling the end of their braid around their finger. “That portrait you did of me was _beautiful_.”

Grantaire yelps. “You saw that?” He’d thought he was doing a pretty good job of keeping his subversive sketching of housemates undercover.

“Bahorel saw it in your room when he went in to get a book, he showed it to me.”

Bahorel is washing dishes. He winces when Grantaire turns to look at him.

“Sorry, sorry! In my defense, it was too good to not show off.” Grantaire keeps staring at him, expression unchanged. Bahorel winces again. “ _But_ in the future,” he continues, “I will avert my eyes from your desk when I am retrieving books from your room and not decide to show any amazing paintings to anyone.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Grantaire says emphatically. Then, turning to Jehan, “thank you” again, softer this time. Jehan smiles slightly. The topic of conversation changes, much to Grantaire’s relief.

Bahorel, as he leans over to pick up Grantaire and Musichetta’s bowls, pauses to whisper in his ear. “I know you weren’t happy with how you climbed today. But you better believe I will drag you to the fucking wall every damn day now I know you climb and we’ll have you back in shape within the month.” He leaves before Grantaire can argue.

He can admit, in retrospect, that climbing—exercise in general—did make him feel slightly better. The old familiarity—chalk on his hands, the particular weightlessness found when perched on a vertical face, the slight pinch of his climbing shoes on his toes—made him feel good. Happy. _This is good for you_ , he thinks to himself. _R 2.0, right? Do things that are good for you_.

Thirty minutes later, everyone else has left the kitchen and he’s alone, nursing a glass of water and a slice of cornbread in an effort to abate the flames still plaguing his mouth. Musichetta walks in, sits down in front of him, folds her hands, and says in a no-nonsense tone, “You need a job”.

Yes, he really does. He hasn’t worked since the end of July, getting by on a combination of meager savings and the fact he’s hardly spending anything on groceries thanks to the food growing in the backyard. At this point, however, his bank account is in pain. Which isn’t to say he wants charity.

“Yes,” he says firmly, “but I need to find one for myself. You guys have already been nice enough to me, you don’t need to hand me a job too.”

Musichetta raises one elegant eyebrow. “First, I am not a _guy_. Second, I’m not handing you anything. And third, some friends of mine just opened up a coffee shop and they need a few more baristas. You told me you worked in a coffee shop a few years ago. Were you decent?”

He’d made the best damn cappuccinos in the city. Too bad he was too busy getting stoned and drunk every day to regularly show up to work.

“I was decent,” he replies.

“Great,” she says, standing up. “Come in tomorrow if you have time, around two. Make a couple drinks for me and if they’re good and you can adequately communicate with customers, you’re hired. I’ll text you the address.” She raps her knuckles on the table, twice rapidly. “R, look at me.”

He meets her eyes.

“This isn’t charity, and I’m not just giving you a job cause you’re my friend. We need baristas, I know you’re a good one because Jehan used to trek halfway across town just to drink your cappuccinos, and I trust you, okay? So _don’t worry_.” She sweeps out of the room.

“Too much is happening,” he tells the lopsided Van Gogh print on the wall. “I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know who I am, and I don’t understand why these people like me.”

The faded sunflowers don’t reply. He groans, downs the rest of his water, fervently wishing it were beer (yet another unseen benefit of living here—Bossuet refuses to let anyone have alcohol in the house because it’s haram and “fucking terrible for you anyway, just go to a fucking bar if you want it”), and goes to bed.

Of course, he can’t sleep even though he’s exhausted. He tosses and turns for hours, but every time he closes his eyes he sees Enjolras’, narrowed and glaring at him. Enjolras is single. Grantaire is so, so fucked.

But there’s another person who’s so, so fucked, which makes it impossible for him to ever pursue Enjolras, even if Enjolras had any interest in the first place. He thinks of the way Combeferre looks at Enjolras, his heartbreaking panic at the hospital, the way he subtly covered his ears in the kitchen while Courfeyrac talked about getting Enjolras “some action”. Enjolras might not be in love with Combeferre, and they might not be dating, but it’s beyond clear that Combeferre is hopelessly, painfully in love with Enjolras. And Combeferre is lovely and kind and was the first person to step up and talk to him at that first terrifying meeting—he can’t possibly make things worse for him.

No Enjolras, he tells himself, rolling to his side and pulling the pillow over his head. No thinking about him, no painting him, definitely no talking to him or dragging him out to bars as Courfeyrac wants. _No Enjolras._  

* * *

 

Combeferre is sitting at the kitchen table trying to finish a lab write-up for immunology that he absolutely doesn’t understand. It’s one o’clock in the morning. Enjolras must still be at the library, Courf could be anywhere. He’s been staring at the same line of text for ten minutes with no idea how to proceed. _Macrophages are able to move outside of vascular systems by moving across the walls of vessels and entering areas between cells. Thus, they are able to pursue invading pathogens and engulf them in areas where phagocytes cannot enter_. He’s still on the introduction of the paper. It’s due tomorrow morning at ten.

He hates the feeling of being too stupid for his subject. He knows he’s smart, he isn’t afraid to admit it. He’s always loved science, biology, biochemistry. And yet the classes he’s taking, the subjects he’s studying, beat him over and over again. He doesn’t understand. He does his best. He teaches himself. He spends hours and hours studying material that everyone else seems to grasp without any effort at all. And then he gets Cs and Ds on assignments and tests and Bs in classes, if he’s lucky, and ends up being a disappointment across the board: to his family, to his friends, to himself. He may be smart, but he’s too stupid for science. So why is he still trying so hard? 

He lets his aching head fall onto the cool wood of the kitchen table. He did this lab. He can copy the methods from the lab instructions, and copy the results from his notebook. The concepts behind the experiment are easy enough. But he knows when it comes time to write out the explanations and conclusions, he’ll have to ask Joly, his lab partner, for his interpretation, and probably read through three chapters of his textbook to come up with a halfway-decent answer. He hates this. Hates it hates it hates it.

The door to the apartment slams open and footsteps rush into the kitchen. “’Ferre!” It’s Courf’s voice. “’Ferre, look, I need help! He needs help!”

Combeferre lifts his head from his arms and looks at Courfeyrac, who’s dripping wet and holding what looks like a soggy sleeve from a fur coat. His glasses are blurry and he has to squint to see it closer. “What is that?”

“I found him outside, he’s really cold. I don’t actually know if it’s a he…” Coufeyrac drops the thing on Combeferre’s open immunology textbook. He looks closer.

It’s a kitten. More specifically, it’s a soaking wet, tiny kitten, too small to be away from its mother. He touches its ear and it mewls quietly. It’s freezing. Courfeyrac’s right.

They’re technically not allowed to have animals in the flat. It’s on their lease. He doesn’t give a shit.

“We need to warm it up,” he says, standing up and tearing off a wad of paper towels from the roll. “Go grab a towel and throw it on top of the radiator, we need to make sure it’s warm before we can feed it. Do we still have that heating pad?”

“I don’t know…I’ll look for it.”

“Hurry!” he calls after Courfeyrac’s retreating figure. He can tell he’s a bit drunk by the way he’s walking, but not completely out of his mind. Hopefully lucid enough to help. He dabs a few paper towels over the kitten’s back in an effort to dry it slightly. The kitten mewls again and nestles its head into his hand. His heart is melting. The pages of his immunology textbook are gradually being soaked through by rainwater and he couldn’t care less. Who would care about macrophages when there’s a kitten?

Courfeyrac returns to the kitchen, brandishing towels and a disused heating pad, cord dangling on the floor. “Found it in the way back of Enj’s closet,” he says proudly, as though he goes foraging in Enjolras’ closet regularly. Which, knowing Courfeyrac, is an entirely reasonable possibility.

Combeferre unbuttons the nappy flannel he’s wearing—his favorite late night homework shirt, which he would never wear outside of the house but which has the distinct situational advantage of being extremely warm—wraps the kitten in a towel, and holds it close to his body near his stomach, wrapping the bottom of the shirt around it. “Can you plug that in?” he asks Courfeyrac, nodding at the heating pad. Courfeyrac doesn’t move and when Combeferre looks up he notices a strange look on Courf’s face as he stares at the kitten.

“Why are you doing that?” he asks in a strangled voice.

“We have to warm it up slowly, so it’s not a shock to its system. Body heat works really well, and then we can add the heating pad once it’s a bit warmed up.”

“How do you _know_ this stuff?” Courfeyrac says under his breath as he finally tears his eyes away from the kitten and plugs the heating pad in. Combeferre refrains from telling him about the dozens of lost or injured animals he played nursemaid to when he was young, including kittens, birds, and once, memorably, a baby raccoon. He just pets the kitten. The kitten tries to suckle his pinkie finger. “No, no,” he murmurs. “Not yet.” He wonders if their milk is past its expiration date or not.

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Courfeyrac says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “I might vomit.”

“Can you check if the milk is still good?” Combeferre asks, ignoring him.

After about thirty minutes, he wraps the warm heating pad around the kitten too, still holding it close to his stomach. It appears to have fallen into a doze, but it wakes abruptly when he strays too close to its stomach, and chomps down hard on his hand. He’s honestly surprised that its tiny mouth can even open that wide. “Hey!” he admonishes, as Courfeyrac laughs. He unwraps the kitten a bit and sees why it was so defensive—a long, red scratch down its belly, bleeding sluggishly at one end. Not too deep, definitely doesn’t need stiches, but does need cleaning. The examination does provide a helpful answer to the sex question—decidedly male.

“It’s a he,” he informs Courfeyrac, who coos and rubs the kitten’s head while Combeferre swabs the cut with hydrogen peroxide. “Maximilian,” he muses, “he looks like a Maximilian, all regal with those golden eyes and black tuxedo. Or Mr. Smith. Or Bertie.”

“You went from very refined to very weird there,” Combeferre comments, wrapping the kitten back up. “And maybe don’t name it yet, considering we can’t have pets here.”

“Whatever,” Courfeyrac says. “We’re keeping it. I’ll talk to the landlord.”

And Combeferre has to admit, if anyone could talk his way out of a no-pets rule, it would be Courfeyrac.

By 3 AM, they’re both still sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the cat. Combeferre’s still holding it in his shirt, even though he’s sure it’s warm enough by now. He doesn’t really want to let it go. He’s feeding it from a bowl of warm milk, dipping the corner of a washcloth in and holding it to the kitten’s mouth, where it suckles at it until the milk is gone. Over and over again, until the bowl is half empty. Then the kitten falls fast asleep and starts to snore, disturbingly loudly for a creature its size.

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Seriously, how did you know what to do? That was amazing!”

“I used to take care of animals that showed up at our place,” Combeferre admits quietly, avoiding Courfeyrac’s gaze. “I just liked helping them. My parents hated it, but I always had some injured bird or something in my bedroom.”

Courfeyrac leans forward and rubs the kitten’s head. His fingers brush Combeferre’s stomach, leaving warm trails behind. “Combeferre, why haven’t you switched to the vet program?” he asks. When Combeferre doesn’t answer, he presses on, the look in his eye indicating that he is unlikely to back down on the subject until he gets some answers.

“Look, everyone can see you’re miserable. You’re not passionate about this, you’re most interested in biology classes outside your major. You’re miserable!” he gestures to the soggy immunology book and Combeferre’s lab notes, still strewn across the table. “And then you do this, and you seem happy and you’re _good at it_ , and you saved this kitten’s life! _Why_ do you not want to do something that makes you happy?”

Combeferre feels a hot flare of anger at the accusations. “It’s not about me! It’s about what makes the most sense for the future, and my family—“

“Why do you care so much about pleasing your family?”

“You don’t understand what it’s like—“

“ _How can you say that_? You _know_ I understand!”

Combeferre shuts up, horrified at his words. “I’m…I know. I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, still glaring. “I know better than _anyone_ what it is to disappoint your parents. I know about the guilt, and about the fear, and about the regret of doing it anyways. But guess what? Your personal happiness is more fucking important than whether or not your mom wants you home over winter break!”

“I know you know I—I’m so sorry, Courf…”

Courfeyrac grinds the heel of his hand into his forehead. The kitten is still snoring, but the conversation seems darker, more important now. No longer a simple discussion between two friends.

“Parents…they think they know what’s best for you,” Courfeyrac starts. “And they want to see you happy, and they want to see you comfortable, and they think they know what that path is, because they’re older and wiser and saw you grow up. But here’s the thing: they _don’t_ know you. They don’t how what truly brings you joy or breaks your heart, they don’t know who you are on the inside, or what your mind is. And they never will. No one will but you. And you’re the one that matters, in the end. You can’t do things to spare your family’s feelings or expectations or happiness if it makes you miserable, or makes you live contrary to the person you are.

“Look at me. I could have decided to be the person they wanted me to be. I could have kept the right name, and kept the right clothes, and answered to the right pronouns, and been their daughter and everything would have been fine. My life would be about a thousand times easier, and so, quite honestly, would theirs. But I’m _not_ their daughter, I’m their son, and I always have been. And if I’d been the way they thought I needed to be and done the things they thought I should to be happy, it would have made them happy, but I would be miserable and living a…a _false_ life, right? So how could I have done anything but gone the way that I had to? And of course it hurts that they hate me and won’t talk to me and keep thinking their daughter’s gonna come home some day when she get’s over this crazy phase, but at least I’m happy with my life! And I wouldn’t be if I was the person they told me I should be.”

Combeferre’s shocked into silence. He doesn’t know how to respond. Courfeyrac never talks about this, in fact this is the most Combeferre’s heard him say about both his family and being trans. Of course, it’s not something Courf’s ever hidden, either—he’s always been open and proud of his identity. Combeferre went with him the day he turned 18 to legally change his name. But he forgets. Forgets because Courfeyrac is so comfortable and confident with himself and his identity, so blunt and straightforward, so utterly fearless. It’s hard to see through all that to the deeper emotions and experiences, the places where hurt still lies buried under Courfeyrac’s self-assured displays of happiness and contentment.

He can’t meet Courf’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you know. And I’m sorry again for…everything.”

Courfeyrac scoots his chair closer. “I’m only bringing it up because I think you need the reminder. It’s in no way the same thing, but the root of it is. You can’t let your family decide the life you lead. Because sooner or later they’ll be gone and you’ll be stuck in the life you built at their command, and you’ll be miserable. Don’t do that to yourself, okay?”

He stands and stretches. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got a test in media law tomorrow. I’m glad you knew what to do with the kitten. We’re keeping him.”

“I’m glad I did, too.”

Courfeyrac flips the overhead light off. The faint glow of the streetlight from the window illuminates the kitchen and throws Courfeyrac’s face into eerie shadow. He moves towards the door, but stops again next to Combeferre’s chair.

“Look,” he says, putting a gentle hand on Combeferre’s face and tilting it till their eyes meet. Combeferre can barely make out his facial features in the darkness, just a glint of light reflecting from his dark eyes. “I want to see you happy. I hate to see you so…” he gestures uselessly as though trying to pull the right word from a dark corner of the kitchen. “… _empty_ ,” he finally finishes. His thumb moves ever so slightly across Combeferre’s cheekbone, a timid caress, and then his hand drops. He walks out of the kitchen without another word, the door to his room closing with a soft thump seconds later. 

Combeferre sits in the dark for a long time, sleeping kitten in his lap, eyes open to nothing in the predawn darkness. The feel of Courfeyrac’s fingers on his cheek lingers through to dawn, when he finally goes to his room, kitten still cradled in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Climbing jargon: Roped climbs (or sport climbing, if it's outside) are rated on a numerical scale. For indoor climbing, a 5.8 is considered easiest, while a 5.12c or 5.13 is usually as hard as gym routes get. Outdoors, you'll find anything from a 5.6 (which is basically an exalted scramble) to a 5.15c, the most difficult climb completed to this date. "Belaying" refers to the person on the ground anchoring the rope the climber is attached to, which catches them if they fall.  
> This will all eventually relate to the plot, which is why I'm talking about it now.


	5. December (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December was going to be one chapter but it was going to be an overly long chapter with way too many plot points and also probably not posted till March at the rate I'm going. So I split it in two.  
> Warnings for transphobia and alcoholism. And unkind words.

DECEMBER

“I’m not going to pass Immunology,” Combeferre says, pushing away the notebook covered in calculations. “Even if I get 100% on the final, I’ll barely make a C in the class.” Even with the highest scores possible, passing with credit will be a close call. But Combeferre has accepted fate—and failure—and he knows he won’t get full credit on the test, let alone the lab final.

 “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” Joly murmurs next to him, “Hasselhof might decide to curve it.”

“He’s never done it before. He won’t do it this year. And besides, most people are doing okay. It probably wouldn’t help me much.”

“He might be bluffing. And not everyone’s doing well, most people are in your boat. It’s a painfully difficult class.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“That’s because I _like_ immunology, ‘Ferre. I want to _be an immunologist_.”

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be doing better.”

“Again. I love immunology. I think it is the coolest shit on the planet. I am planning to spend the rest of my life studying it because it makes me so happy. You hate it and are not planning on being an immunologist, ever.”

Combeferre sighs and rubs his forehead. He’s had a constant headache all week, and he knows it’s not going to go away any time soon. It’s the Saturday before finals, and he’s…well, he’s fucked. “I need to get credit for it,” he reminds Joly quietly. “I need it for my major.”

“You can retake it, maybe when you have more time to put into it.” He must see the grimace of distaste on Combeferre’s face because he leans in closer. “Lots of people retake classes, ‘Ferre. Don’t stress out about it.”

“The vet program deadline isn’t till the end of the month,” Courfeyrac remarks mildly, not looking up from his laptop. “They don’t require immunology.”

Combeferre ignores him. He hasn’t talked with Courf about the vet program since that night back in November, but he also hasn’t told him—or anyone else, for that matter—about the nearly finished application sitting on his desktop. He’s submitted his transcript, gotten two recommendations from his favorite professors and one from his Honors advisor, compiled a resume, and finished one of the two essays. The other essay sits permanently open on his laptop. He looks at it every day, a blinking cursor under the title **Why are you interested in pursuing veterinary medicine?** He doesn’t have an answer. Because he loves animals. Because it makes him feel useful. Because it makes him feel happy. Because it brings him a rare feeling of peace, the same feeling as being utterly lost in a book, or held by someone who loves you. Because it doesn’t make him afraid.

Nothing decent to stretch into a 500 word essay, certainly.

And he still doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to stomach telling his parents about the change. Just yesterday, a phone conversation with his mom primarily centered around his fictional internship and how he has to work harder if he expects to get into med school made him panic enough to almost delete the entire application. The only thing that saved him was Enjolras getting home and asking what was wrong, which forced him to step away from his computer before he could do anything drastic. Enjolras made him a cup of tea and didn’t ask any questions, which Combeferre appreciated.

Instead of vocalizing any of this, he just says, “I don’t want four more months of Immunology.” Joly pats his arm sympathetically and Courfeyrac sighs and shakes his head.

Enjolras walks up to the table, laptop under his arm and carrying two coffee cups. He sets one in front of Combeferre. “Here, you look like you could use this.”

“Thank you so much,” Combeferre says fervently, pulling the mug towards him. He’s exhausted, and they still have the meeting to get through, not to mention the hours of homework he has to slog through tonight.

“Where’s mine?” Courfeyrac whines, turning puppy dog eyes towards Enjolras.

“I only have two hands,” Enjolras points out.

“You love ‘Ferre more than you love me.”

“Clearly,” Enjolras says as he opens up his own laptop. Combeferre doesn’t like this conversation very much.

Courfeyrac stands to get his own coffee, grumbling. Joly checks his phone. “It’s past six, where is everyone?”

They all turn to survey the nearly-empty Corinth. For a group of people that’s fairly good at being on time, this is uncharacteristic. It could be due in part to the near-blizzard conditions outside, but weather doesn’t usually stop the regulars.

“Jehan said they were bringing Grantaire’s posters today, so they’ll definitely be here at some point,” Combeferre says, trying to discern figures on the sidewalk out the window.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I still don’t get why you’re all so crazy about Grantaire doing the posters, how’s he supposed to know what’s going on if he’s never been to a meeting?”

“His art is amazing, Enjolras, you’ll see,” Joly says earnestly. “And he doesn’t really need to be coming to meetings to draw something related to climate change. It’s a widespread issue.”

“I’m just saying,” Enjolras sounds exasperated and stressed. “one of us easily could have gotten it done, I could have done it if you’d just—“

“ _Not your problem_ ,” Combeferre says emphatically. “Remember?”

Enjolras settles back in his chair, grumbling, just as the door of the Corinth opens, letting in a blast of freezing air and a flurry of snow.

“ _Grantaire?_ ” Combeferre gasps, squinting to see if he’s seeing straight. Despite their earnest encouragements to attend meetings, Grantaire has still been conspicuously absent from the last three. Hence Enjolras’ ever-increasing doubt of his ability to draw up the flyers. But Combeferre’s eyes _aren’t_ deceiving him—it actually is Grantaire, snow covered and shivering in a flimsy jacket. From the bar, Courfeyrac whoops and abandons a coffee and a beer bottle to throw his arms around Grantaire, who staggers backwards at the unexpected assault. 

“Well, well, well,” Joly says, turning to Enjolras and rubbing his hands together. “How the tables have turned.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Courfeyrac drags Grantaire over to their table, shoving the beer into his hands and patting his back with such urgency and excitement Grantaire’s head is actually wobbling back and forth. He makes brief eye contact with Enjolras and then drops his gaze to the ground, reaching into his bag to pull out a stack of paper.

“Everyone’s either snowbound or too stressed about finals to come today,” he says quietly. “I was out already, so I thought I’d…drop these off really quick.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre says quietly, trying to find Enjolras’ foot under the table to stomp on it. Enjolras is glaring at Grantaire with an expression he usually reserves for talking about politicians he hates, or speeches about income inequality. Grantaire doesn’t deserve the glare. Grantaire doesn’t deserve Enjolras’ emotional constipation. He’s still staring at the ground.

Combeferre pulls the pile of flyers towards him and nearly gasps. They’re beautiful. An abstract design, almost like a Dalí painting, a strange, hellish, landscape showing far off buildings spewing smoke. In the foreground, willowy figures reach out their arms, trailing plants and flowers, towards the wasteland. Combeferre recognizes at least three distinct species, drawn with botanical perfection.

CLIMATE RALLY, JAN. 31, SOLIEL CONVENTION CENTER, NOON. All the information is there, rendered in bold, difficult to miss lettering. More importantly, the art is breathtaking and eyecatching, something that will draw people’s attention if they see them on walls, bulletin boards, and street lamps. It’s extraordinary. More than he could have expected.

“Grantaire, it’s beautiful,” Courfeyrac says softly. Joly elbows Grantaire and grins. “We told you you’d be perfect!”

“It’s not perfect,” Grantaire mumbles, but Combeferre can see the faint blush coloring his cheekbones.

Enjolras pulls one towards him and studies it closely, eyebrows knit. A silence falls as they all look at him—even Grantaire raises his eyes to peek.

“It doesn’t have anything about our group on it,” Enjolras says, frowning. “It’s not… _inspiring_ , at all. We need inspiration for this.”

Grantaire’s eyes drop right back down. His hand tightens around the beer bottle and he takes a long swig before speaking. “I thought the rally was for more than just your group,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to make it exclusive, or more about the club than the rally itself.”

“It’s not about _anything_ ,” Enjolras replies. “If you’d been coming to meetings, you’d have put something related to our mission on here.”

“I also didn’t want to make it too busy,” Grantaire argues back. “People don’t want to read about your starry-eyed idealism on an informational poster for a rally.”

Enjolras’ eyes flash. “Our _starry-eyed idealism_ may be what makes people decide to participate! And _we’re_ planning the rally, we ought to have something on there. And if you were going for simple, not busy, your art leaves something to be desired.”

“ _Enjolras_!” Courfeyrac interrupts. “This is the best art—the best poster—we’ve ever had!”

Enjolras frowns. “I’m not saying the art isn’t _good_ , it’s quite beautiful, I’m just saying…Grantaire,” he looks at Grantaire and says his name with some amount of difficulty. “I don’t think you’re involved enough with this to be the person we need to design a poster for our most important event of the year.”  

Grantaire laughs softly and shakes his head, takes another long swig from the bottle, and stands. “I told you I wasn’t the right person for the job,” he says, smiling crookedly at Combeferre. He scoops up the pile of flyers and throws them in the trash as he walks out, not bothering to zip up his jacket, beer bottle still clutched in his hand.

A heavy, ugly silence follows his departure. Joly and Courf stare at Enjolras, while Combeferre’s eyes remain locked on the door. How could Enjolras be so cruel? To someone he’s never talked to, never really even met, someone who he only has preconceived ideas of?

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Yeah, what’s your problem with him?” Joly demands. Combeferre has never heard mild-mannered Joly sound this angry. He, too, wants to yell at Enjolras, but his mind can’t quite process that far yet. He stands and walks over to the garbage can by the door, bending down to fish out Grantaire’s flyers. Half of them are already soaked through with coffee grounds. In the bottom right corner, Grantaire’s signed his name in tiny, neat script along with the year. The amount of work that went into these flyers was clearly tremendous, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Grantaire’s delay in getting them printed and brought to a meeting was honestly due to him working on them for a solid three weeks, refusing to show anyone until they were absolutely perfect.

“You don’t know him, Enjolras!” Courf is saying. “It doesn’t matter he isn’t part of the club, he agreed to take his time to make these, and he _did a great job_ , why did you lash out like that?”

Enjolras fights back, jaw clenched. “He doesn’t have any idea what we do or what we work for, and he clearly isn’t interested in learning. He’s completely refused to come to meetings despite being invited by everyone, which is just _rude_ , and he thinks our mission is a joke! Starry-eyed idealism, did you hear him?”

Combeferre drops the soggy flyers in front of Enjolras. “He’s not obligated to come to meetings, Enjolras. Not everyone in the world has to want to be a part of this group, or interested in what we do. And you can’t take out your frustration that not everyone shares your ideals on him the way you just did. These flyers are perfect, but you just fucked them up. And if you wanted Grantaire to start coming to meetings, that was a great way to make sure it never happens.”

He pulls on his coat and grabs his backpack. “I’m going to see if I can find him, make sure he’s okay.” Courfeyrac nods at him with approval, while Enjolras stares at him, mouth open. Thinking back, he can’t remember a time he’s spoken with such heat to Enjolras. Sure, he’s been angry with him before, but he’s usually taken the time to craft a logical, calm argument to present to Enjolras. He’s _never_ sworn at him, other than when he was driving him to the hospital.

“Combeferre!” Enjolras calls after him as he walks out the door. He doesn’t turn back. 

* * *

 

Typical. Fucking typical. What exactly had he thought would happen? Enjolras proclaiming undying gratitude and love at the first sight of the flyers? After all those dirty looks at his first and only meeting? He’s still not entirely sure what he did, other than not attending any meetings to follow, but clearly something had to have caused Enjolras’ wrath. Grantaire racks his brain. Was Enjolras in one of his classes back when he was in school? Did Grantaire cut him in line at the grocery store? _Oh God_ , had they had some drunken encounter that Grantaire’s forgotten about? 

This thought brings him up short. Enjolras doesn’t seem like the get-drunk-and-hook-up type, but you never know. And Grantaire had quite a streak of amazing hookups that he remembers nothing about a few years ago.

This thought is too horrible to comprehend. He glances around. Conveniently, he’s standing right next to a pub, one of his old favorites in the neighborhood. He goes in without a second thought. Some things are too horrible and disappointing and infuriating to deal with sober.

He goes inside and drinks, for the first time in nearly five months. For five months, he’s had nothing but a few beers. But the taste of the beer back at the Corinth soothed his anger and hurt and awoke a desperation he hasn’t felt in a long time. Before long, he’s been to three different bars and can barely remember what he’s angry about.

At some point—the third bar?—he ran into an old friend. Yeah, one of _those_ old friends, the pre-R 2.0 friends, who slapped him on the back and immediately challenged him to a drinking game that involved taking a lot of shots very quickly, and after that he gave up completely and decided to just enjoy himself. Drinking isn’t even that bad, anyway. Certainly not as bad as he’d decided it was. Why did he quit, again? Stupid.

The bars all close at 2 AM and he’s left standing in the street, in the heavy blowing snow, trying to figure out where he is. He has no idea. And it’s cold. He makes out a street sign, but he doesn’t have a map app on his shitty old phone. He slumps down under the awning of a building that’s seen better days, and tries to make himself think.

His phone battery is at…the number’s blurry, but he thinks it says 13%. So he has to be quick. Fingers numb and clumsy, he scrolls to Feuilly’s number. Maybe he can clean up Grantaire’s mess one more time.

He answers on the first ring. “R? Where the fuck are you?”

“Mirés,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I saw that street sign.”

“Okay,” Feuilly sounds vaguely panicked, and he can’t quite figure out why. It’s not like this is unusual behavior—or like anyone at the house would _really_ care if he didn’t come home. “Okay, R, I need you to give me another street name, so we can come find you.”

“Don’t need finding.” An abject lie.

“Shut up and give me another street name.”

He looks around himself in desperation. There aren’t any street signs around, and if there are, he wouldn’t be able to see them through the snow. He forces himself up and wanders aimlessly down a side street.

“Ruffi,” he says when he finally encounters a street sign. A thought occurs. “But I don’t know if I’m still on Mirés now.”

“Jesus, R, you’re on the other fucking side of the city. Listen, don’t move. Sit down where you are and we’ll be there as soon as we can, do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he says. He sits on some steps. The snow, slushy and wet, quickly soaks through the seat of his pants. “It’s cold.”

“I know, R, but listen don’t move. Just stay—“

Feuilly’s voice cuts off abruptly. There goes the phone battery. He keeps it held to his ear anyway. At least it’s warm.

An indeterminate amount of time later—after a group of drunken kids yell at him from the other side of the street, after he’s lost all feeling in his toes, but before he actually falls asleep—a voice calls his name. Running footsteps—more than one pair. Someone’s crouching in front of him, clutching his arm. He blinks and squints through the snow. It’s Combeferre.

“What are you doing here?” he tries to say, but it comes out as more of a mumble.

“You’re freezing Grantaire! I tried to find you after you left, but you disappeared! Where’d you go?”

After he disappeared from where? He tries to force his mind back to earlier that day, but the memories are fleeting. He’d been climbing. There was the snowstorm, so Bahorel hadn’t made it into the gym. Grantaire was planning on giving him the flyers to take to the meeting. Instead, he’d taken them himself. And then—

Feuilly’s there now, too, yelling something about Grantaire being a “stupid fucking idiot, are you _trying_ to screw your life up again?” He almost laughs. Like he needs to try.

Between the two of them, he’s standing, then walking down the street. Which is a bit too much for his soggy brain and frostbitten toes. So he throws up. On Combeferre’s shoes. And then—well, then he doesn’t really know what happens….

…but he’s warm. And has as killer headache. _Jesus Christ_. The last time he felt like this was…

…probably the last time he got fucking wasted. Shit.

He opens his eyes a crack and winces as a lancet of sunlight pierces them. He must groan or something, because the person at his side says “Grantaire?”

It’s Combeferre, and Grantaire has a hard time remembering why the hell Combeferre would be around until a vivid image of himself throwing up on him resurfaces. This memory makes him want to throw up again.

“Oh, shit,” he says, lifting himself up on his elbows and trying valiantly to ignore the pain that ricochets through his head at the sudden movement. “I am so, so sorry Combeferre, I don’t know what to do, I just...I’ve been trying to quit drinking and last night was just a massive failure but it’s the first time I’ve drunk in awhile and must have been a shock to my system; I can usually hold my liquor better, not that that excuses me throwing up on you—“

“Hey,” Combeferre says calmly, passing Grantaire a glass of water. “It’s okay. Drink this, and then lay down and don’t panic, okay?”

Grantaire downs half the glass in one go. It makes him feel marginally better. Wordlessly, Combeferre passes over two painkillers, which Grantaire eagerly swallows.

“Lay back down,” Combeferre says again. “You should just…probably stay horizontal for a bit.”

“What time is it?”

“6:30. At night. We found you at 5 AM. Feuilly thought you’d frostbitten your toes.”

“Did I?”

Combeferre laughs slightly. “No, your resident doctor in training, me, has confirmed that your toes are fine and will not fall off.”

Well, that’s a relief. He can’t remember many of the specifics of last night, including how cold he actually felt, but he does remember a gnarly snowstorm, and getting lost. He takes a minute to look around at his surroundings and deduces that he’s at Feuilly’s place—in his bed, no less.

“Why’d you bring me here?”

“Feuilly’s is closer to where we found you than the house is. We thought it was better to get you inside quick.”

And last but not least, the most important and mystifying question: “Why are you still _here_? I don’t mean that to sound accusatory—but I mean, I threw up on you.”

“Don’t worry about the vomit, Grantaire, I didn’t really like those shoes anyway. And I just…I just wanted to make sure you were okay after last night at the Corinth. What Enjolras said—“

What Enjolras said. And lord if Grantaire doesn’t wish he’d drunk three times as much as he had and just dropped dead. Or at least lost his memory.

He should be stoic, act like it didn’t bother him, apologize for making a shitty flyer—it must have just been shitty, and Enjolras was right, he hadn’t been to any meetings. How would he _really_ know what to write to convey the group’s message? It wasn’t Enjolras’ fault he didn’t like it.

Instead, he’s pathetic.

“Why does he hate me, Combeferre?” he asks, voice muffled by his hands covering his face. “What did I do?”

Combeferre sighs. “Enjolras can be…very headstrong. And he can also be very judgmental, without even knowing he’s doing it. He does so much work for equality and social justice, and sometimes he forgets to reflect his own high ideals. I think he was offended that you didn’t speak up at all that first meeting, even though he knew you were only there to talk with Jehan about the house. And I think that resentment grew and grew when you didn’t show up to any other meetings.”

“I never said I was going to come to them, though!”

“I know, I know. That’s the other thing. He can get a bit overly offended when people aren’t as passionate about our group’s mission as he thinks they should be. Or if they’re already too busy to join another group, or if they only can show up for action events, or if they don’t show up to every meeting, or if they’re just not interested. He has difficulty understanding that not everyone likes everything he does, and he thinks it’s inexcusable not to engage with social issues, which I tend to agree with, but…not everyone can give it the energy he does.”

“He was right about the flyer,” Grantaire says. “It wasn’t my best. I can redo it, if you let me, but…they need to go up sooner rather than later. You ought to just let him make them.”

Combeferre leans forward and grips Grantaire’s arm with sudden violence. “Grantaire. Those flyers were beautiful. They were perfect. They’re better than anything we’ve ever had. I took them out of the trash after you left and I’m going to make a hundred more copies and hang them all over town.”

“You can’t,” Grantaire says. “Enjolras didn’t like them. He needs to like them.” He doesn’t know why he cares so much, but Enjolras’ approval of the flyers seems essential and paramount.

Combeferre shakes his head. “No. He doesn’t. He was terrible to you, Grantaire. Terrible because he’s resentful and jealous Courf and I asked you to do them without asking him for input first. But this is part of the thing. We’re in charge of this event, and he has to accept that and step back. He wouldn’t even be spending time at meetings and stressing out about them if we thought we had any hope of keeping him away. And we’re using your flyer. Everyone else thinks it’s perfect, and I can guarantee you he does too, he’s just too emotionally constipated to admit it.”

Grantaire groans and rolls over. He doesn’t want to think about Enjolras, or about the flyers, or about drinking, or, especially, about how disappointed Feuilly and Eponine will be that he fell off the bandwagon. He wants to go back to sleep and never wake up, which is discouraging considering he hasn’t felt that way in a good long while.

Combeferre clears his throat. “On another note, Feuilly told me about your…history.”

That bastard. That wonderful bastard.

“It hasn’t been a problem for awhile,” he mumbles into his pillow.

“That’s great—I mean, seriously impressive, Grantaire. But. You have the history and it looks like it’s easy enough for you to fall back into bad habits if you’re distressed. So.”

He hates the sound of Combeferre’s voice, gentle and sad and pitying. He hates pity. He _will not_ be pitied.

“Yeah, I know it’s clear. I’m sorry you had to see it, alright?” His voice comes out snappy and sharper than he planned. And as much as he hates pity, Combeferre is an angel who doesn’t deserve Grantaire’s spiteful anger. He tries to calm the rising tide in his stomach.

“I’m not,” Combeferre says plainly. “And, if it’s alright with you, Feuilly and I are going to tell some of the others. No one at your house knows about it, and though I know there’s no alcohol there thanks to Bossuet, it would be good to have others know so they can help you if you need it.”

“ _No,_ ” Grantaire gasps, horrified. He sits up and grabs Combeferre’s hand. “Please, you can’t tell them. I’m—I’ve been doing so much better, you don’t understand, I’m a _completely different person_ than I was. I’m who they know, but they wouldn’t want to know the other me, and they wouldn’t want to know me if they knew…about me.”

Combeferre shakes his head. “They’re your friends, Grantaire. They care about you. They don’t care about what you’ve done or who you were in the past, they care about who you are now. And they _all_ would want to help you as much as possible.”

“ _Please_ don’t tell anyone else, Combeferre. It’s bad enough you know now, too. They can’t—I don’t want them to think I need help or pity or anything more than they already do. Plus, Eponine already knows. She’s enough.”

Combeferre is firm. “We’re telling Jehan and Bahorel, at least. I know Eponine knows, but one person isn’t enough.”

“You’re literally making babysitters for me. This isn’t what I want.”

“It’s what you’re getting,” says a new voice from the doorway. Feuilly’s standing there with a cup of coffee in his hands. He walks in and hands it to Grantaire, then steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. One of Feuilly’s thousands of jobs is in a bakery—the same one Bossuet works in, actually, which is how he got involved with the ABC—and that job has given him enormous muscles. He looks very intimidating. Grantaire is intimidated, at least, which infuriates him.

“Look, Grantaire, I’ve never seen you this happy or content. It makes _me_ happy and content. And I don’t want you to fuck it up every time something goes wrong, or Enjolras says a mean word to you.”

“This was _not_ because of Enjolras!” Now he is angry. He’s not that affected by Enjolras’ words, for them to spark an all night bender.

Except. He is. Undeniably, that’s what caused this one.

“Whatever. The point is, Grantaire, this proves that you can go back over the edge. And I don’t want that to happen. Ep doesn’t, Combeferre here doesn’t. And I know you don’t. And the more people out there to help you, for you to talk to, for you to _trust_ , the less likely this is to happen regularly.”

He can’t believe how royally he fucked up. He knew he fucked up, but not this bad.

“This wasn’t even that bad,” he says weakly. “It was only for one night.”

This is clearly the wrong thing to say, as Combeferre’s eyes visibly widen. Feuilly just shakes his head.

“Not up for discussion. Now either drink some coffee and get up or go back to sleep. I’m going to work and Combeferre needs to leave soon, too, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Just lock up when you leave.”

He’s gone before Grantaire can muster up a reply.

Combeferre is silent next to him, twisting his hands in his lap. Grantaire draws up his knees and rests his head on them, trying not to cry.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, like that will change anything. “I didn’t plan to, I swear. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Combeferre says softly. “And I’m so, so sorry that Enjolras hurt you like that. I know he didn’t mean to—I know he wasn’t out to hurt you. I just—Grantaire, we couldn’t find you. You were gone. And it was—it was scary.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“I am, too,” Combeferre answers. Grantaire hears the creak of the chair as he stands and the brief touch of a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you soon. And, listen…I’m always here if you need to…talk, or anything. Or just hang out. Whatever.”

He can’t bring himself to reply. Combeferre waits for a moment, maybe expecting an answer, but he doesn’t raise his head from his knees and eventually the creak of the floorboards and the slam of a door indicate that he’s gone.

* * *

 

Combeferre comes home to an empty house. Not surprising—Enjolras is hermiting in the library for the week, and Courfeyrac is probably at one of a dozen study groups he’s joined. He doesn’t mind. He’s never felt so exhausted in his life, eyes burning and mind moving so slow he can’t even get in the front door until he realizes he’s turning the key the wrong way.

He’d been up all night, either worried about or looking for Grantaire. And once they’d found him, he’d only napped for a few hours in the hazy, exhausted morning. And he has a test tomorrow. Immunology, of course.  He tries to weigh the pros and cons of studying a bit tonight versus just going to bed and cramming in the morning. He decides on bed, though he knows it isn’t the right decision.

He’s already taken his shirt off and his pants are halfway there when he hears the sobs.

Someone is home, and they’re crying. Cautiously, he pokes his head out into the hall. Enjolras’ door is open, revealing a dark, empty room. Courfeyrac’s door is closed. No light shows through the crack at the bottom, but the sounds are coming from behind it. He pulls his pants back on and throws on his flannel before carefully tiptoeing down the hall and tapping on Courf’s door.

The sounds stop immediately, as though the person is trying to pretend he’s not there at all. Combeferre decides to ignore Courfeyrac’s wishes to be ignored, and cautiously cracks the door open.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust because the room is utterly dark, curtains pulled tight shut to block any moonlight. Courfeyrac sits huddled in a corner, the kitten clutched tightly in his arms, staring at Combeferre like a cornered thing, trapped and frightened. The dim light from the hallway reflects in his watery eyes, the only brightness in the room.

“Courf?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “What—what’s wrong?”

“Go away,” Courfeyrac whispers. The kitten mewls. “Please.”

He doesn’t answer, or obey, instead moving closer and kneeling a few feet away.

Courfeyrac doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t tell him to leave again. He buries his face in the kitten’s fur and Combeferre can tell by the movement of his shoulders that he’s crying again. He doesn’t say anything either, just sits there until Courfeyrac speaks.

“My mom called,” he finally says, looking up and laughing, a jarring, loud thing against the tears on his cheeks and the silence of the apartment. “I didn’t tell you this, but my sister emailed me last week.”

“ _What_?” Combeferre says, aghast. Courf’s sister is…what, 13, 14 now? Courfeyrac hasn’t seen her since she was 10. His parents wouldn’t let him come home, wouldn’t let her visit, or call.

Courfeyrac nods. “I’ve never felt so happy,” he says. “She said she misses me and wants to see me again someday. And she said ‘love’. You know, ‘love, Mirabel’.”

“Oh my god, Courf, that’s amazing.”

“ _But_ ,” Courfeyrac says, lifting a finger. “She sent it from a school computer. And it was on, like, Yahoo or something, some website you’re not supposed to use on middle school computers, so the school found out and she got in trouble and they told my parents, and she told them she’d emailed me. You know, probably thinking it wasn’t that big of a deal ‘cause they never talk about me, so she probably doesn’t get how much they really hate me. And they flipped shit, of course, and grounded her, and deleted her email accounts, and won’t let her use the computer at home. My mom told me all this when she called. She basically called and yelled at me for five minutes, I didn’t even get a word in. And she reminded me I wasn’t welcome at home over break, like I needed reminding, and that she wasn’t going to let my _deviant, false lifestyle_ affect my little sister. She threatened to press charges, like get some restraining order or some bullshit, if I ever contacted my sister again. I just emailed her back, that’s all I did.”

He doesn’t know what to say. “Courf…”

Courfeyrac shakes his head violently. “No. I hate them, I hate them so much. She’s just a kid, right, she hasn’t made up her mind about anything yet. And she reached out to me. It was her choice! But my parents are indoctrinating her with this hateful bullshit about me, not even letting her make her own choices about what she believes and it’s just—it’s just _so unfair_.” He jumps up and slams his palm against his wall. The kitten yowls and runs out of the room. Combeferre hears him jump up on the kitchen counter seconds later—a continuing battle the kitten is decidedly winning.

Coufreyrac’s still pounding on the wall. “Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them,” pours from his mouth, a mixture of Spanish, English and French swear words mixing with his sobs. Combeferre jumps up and wraps his arms around Courfeyrac, pulling away from the wall and towards the bed where he collapses, sobbing, into Combeferre’s arms.

Combeferre isn’t the person who people usually come to cry with. He can offer endless practical advice, but seeing other people wrapped up in emotion usually just makes him want to cry, too. And he knows, in this case, that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, he can say to Courfeyrac that will heal the hurt. So he doesn’t try to say anything. He just holds him, waits until the sobs become soft and breath evens out into something too exhausted and too broken to cry anymore. The cat returns to the room, jumps up the bed, and curls up against Combeferre’s bare foot. It’s tiny body fits neatly into the arch.

“It’s not fair.” His voice startles Combeferre; he’d thought he was asleep.

“I know,” he replies. “I wish…” He trails off. He doesn’t know what he wishes. He wishes he could talk sense into Courfeyrac’s parents and into everyone else in the world who just doesn’t understand. He wishes he could punch someone.

He doesn’t think saying any of these things out loud will help Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac seems to understand him, anyway, and murmurs “I know,” back.

Courfeyrac has never gone home—or anywhere—for winter break, at least to Combeferre’s knowledge. He always sticks around town, usually drinks with Feuilly or Bahorel if they’re around, and never complains about it or seems put out in the slightest. At least, that’s the façade he projects. 

He forces himself to speak before he loses the nerve. “What are you doing for the break?”

A slight shake of the head, a huff of breath against Combeferre’s leg. “Nothing. I don’t know. I’ll be here. Obviously.”

He winces—he hadn’t meant to put it like that. Like he was trying to drive in the fact that Courfeyrac has nowhere to go. “No, sorry. I mean. Do you maybe want to come home with me over break?” He can’t offer a perfect experience, but he can offer a fairly stable family life and really good Lebanese cooking.

Courfeyrac sits up and stares at him. His eyes are red, the skin around them swollen, hair an absolute rats nest. Combeferre’s never seen something so heartbreaking or strong in his life.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. I mean, if you want. Don’t feel, like, obligated just cause I asked—“

“Are you kidding me, ‘Ferre? Of course I want! I want more than anything.” He wraps his arms around Combeferre and falls back against him. Combeferre can’t see his face but he thinks he might be crying again, given the dampness of the flannel against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac mumbles eventually, as Combeferre is practically nodding off against the wall. The kitten mewls and shifts, scrabbling over his foot, which has gone completely numb. He buts his tiny head against Courfeyrac’s leg.

“We’ll have to bring him, if I’m not here to take care of him,” Courfeyrac says, scratching the kitten’s chin.

Combeferre hadn’t thought of that. They have a giant Siberian husky at home who will either try to eat the kitten or try to play with it and end up sitting on it. He’ll have to figure that one out later.

“I named him Geoffrey,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s what I’ve been calling him.”

“Geoffrey?” Combeferre has never seen a creature that looks less like a Geoffrey in his life. But Courfeyrac is firm. “Yes,” he says, with a solid nod, scooping the kitten—Geoffrey—up and cradling him. “We can call him Geoff for short.”

Geoff. Combeferre is too tired to argue, too close to sleep. “Okay,” he mumbles, resting his head back against the wall. He and Courfeyrac are still tangled together but Courfeyrac doesn’t seem likely to move anytime soon, still curled up in a tight, almost defensive ball, tucked under Combeferre's arm. Neither does the kitten, for that matter, who has settled contentedly half on Combeferre’s stomach and half on Courfeyrac’s arm. He doesn’t mind. It’s comfortable.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until early dawn light slants through the cracks in the drawn curtains, illuminating Courfeyrac’s peaceful, sleeping face and the kitten, who has changed positions and is now settled firmly in the center of Courfeyrac’s chest. It’s adorable. It’s also six AM, which is the time he’d told himself he’d wake up to study for the test he has in six hours.  But.  He's still so tired.  He can't wake up.

Instead, he rolls over to face Courfeyrac and the kitten. He edges slightly closer—Courfeyrac has the blanket and radiates warmth, while Combeferre remains on top of the covers. He’s cold, that’s all. He’s too tired to overthink it as he tucks himself alongside Courfeyrac, gives the kitten a pet, and falls back asleep.

He doesn't wake up till 10 AM.  Courfeyrac is gone, but the kitten is still there, curled up in the indentation his body made.  The covers are pulled up around Combeferre's shoulders and look suspiciously bunched, as though Courfeyrac tucked him in.  His Immunology final is in two hours and he's barely studied, but as the kitten yawns and stretches luxuriously in the patch of sunlight on the bed, he finds he doesn't really mind at all.


	6. December (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy sorry about the long wait. This semester is destroying me.
> 
> In repentance, have an almost 10,000 word chapter.

DECEMBER-II

 

Combeferre is trying to stuff a month’s worth of dirty clothes in his backpack when Enjolras comes in. He lingers in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot like he can’t quite bring himself to step across the threshold.  Combeferre turns to look at him.

“You can come in, you know.”

Enjolras bites his lip. Enjolras is fucking gorgeous when he bites his lip, and he does it a lot—talking to people, puzzling over an assignment, composing emails, watching the news. Combeferre probably has three heart attacks a week because of it. “You’re upset with me,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says, giving up on tugging the backpack’s zipper closed and moving to sit on his bed. “Come in, okay?” Enjolras peels himself off the doorframe and sinks down next to him.

“It’s because of what I said to Grantaire.” A statement, not a question. Enjolras, though sometimes exceedingly dense, is also exceedingly self-aware.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says.

“I…wasn’t nice.”

“That’s an understatement, Enjolras.”

“I feel bad.”

“You ought to.”

Enjolras sighs, already frustrated. “I just…I just don’t get him. I don’t understand. And I don’t understand why I’m so frustrated by it.”

“And I don’t understand why you’re so frustrated either. You should be able to see—you don’t know him at all; you haven’t given him any sort of chance. How are you supposed to understand him if you’ve only talked to him once and seen him—what, three times?”

“Two,” Enjolras says quietly, staring at the floor.

“Right. It isn’t about him, is it? At least, your anger over that stupid little flyer wasn’t really about his art?” 

Enjolras tilts his head backwards and deliberately studies the ceiling, refusing to meet Combeferre’s eyes. Combeferre can’t take his own eyes off the long column of Enjolras’ throat, the slight bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks.

“It was—“ Enjolras says, like he’s forcing the words out, “ _busy,_  I thought. It wasn’t my style.”

“But that’s not the point. You didn’t make them, so of course they weren’t your style. The only thing flyers need is to have the information and be eye-catching. His were both of those things. You know that.

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut. “They were good flyers. I was…I was angry you didn’t ask me first, before you asked him to make them.”

Now they’re getting somewhere. “Look, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, moving in front of him slightly to force him to make eye contact. "I know you’re not happy about the ABC and about what Courf and I are asking you to do. But—and I’m telling you because I love you and care about you and you need to hear it—you can be a bit of a heavy-handed leader. You want to do everything because you think you’re the only one who can. And so you take everything on, you pile it on until you have a to-do list the size of a phone book for the ABC alone, and that’s not considering the other, Iliad-length lists you have for everything else going on in your life. And then you’ve overwhelmed and you do things like pass out in the kitchen because you haven’t slept in 72 hours—“

“I _sleep_ —“

“ _Let me finish_ , you do that, and meanwhile you have twelve people in the club who aren’t doing anything to help and could be. Because they’re competent, and they have good ideas, and the reason they joined is to _help_.”

“They don’t always do it,” Enjolras argues weakly.

“Yes, because they’re human beings and busy students, and not all of us can be you, E. Not all of us should be.” 

Enjolras slumps forward and puts his head in his hands. “I care more about the ABC than anything, ‘Ferre. If I could drop everything and give my all to it, I would.” 

“I know,” Combeferre says, reaching out to rub his back. “But you can’t. You can’t be president of the UN if you don’t get a degree.”

“Watch me,” Enjolras mutters.

“You need to apologize to Grantaire,” Combeferre says. Enjolras stiffens noticeably beneath his hand. 

“I know,” he replies. “But I don’t know if I can." 

Combeferre wants to tell him exactly what his cruelty did to Grantaire. He wants to spell out everything dangerous and precarious about the other man so Enjolras understands the true impact of his words. But he can’t, because he knows Grantaire would both die of mortification and come back from the dead to kill him if he did so.

So instead he just says, “He would take your apology.” Based off Grantaire’s odd, almost desperate desire to please Enjolras with his flyer, Combeferre would wager that Grantaire would not only take Enjolras’ apology, he would be delighted and slightly ashamed over it. “He would appreciate it.”

Enjolras continues to stare at the floor. He bites his lip.

“What?” Combeferre asks.

“I don’t know if I can,” Enjolras repeats. 

“ _Why_?” Combeferre asks, suddenly feeling rather frustrated himself.

“I don’t—I don’t know how to act around him. I can’t keep track of what’s coming out of my mouth. I—I didn’t mean to say half the things I did on Saturday, I just—I was saying them, I don’t know why. I only meant to give him constructive criticism. And the first time he came to a meeting, I couldn’t figure out—I wanted to say hello to him, welcome him to the club, but he seemed so disinterested, and I couldn’t figure out how to approach him and say something. I can’t—he makes me—odd.”

Combeferre has, excruciatingly, dealt with Enjolras having a crush before and this sounds like a textbook example. Enjolras can be endearingly oblivious to feelings, to attraction, to the way other people act towards him, and to the way he acts towards others. He’s basically clueless, his brain isn’t made for romance. Which is why he’s been living with Combeferre for three years and doesn’t have a clue about the daily struggle Combeferre’s been living the entire time. 

“Enjolras,” he says slowly, one more time. “You need to apologize.” Then, because he’s sad and loves Enjolras and wants him to be happy, “that might make everything better.”

Enjolras sighs heavily again. “Do you think he’s in town over break?”

“It sounded like it,” Combeferre replies. “Why?”

“I will be, too,” Enjolras says glumly. “My parents decided to go to Greece and they said I was welcome to come, but I don’t think they meant it. Besides, I have a lot to do in town, to get ready for next semester, I can start work at Senator Lamarque’s office earlier, cram in some more hours at the peace center to save some money.”

“Enjolras…” he trails off. He’s hesitant to invite yet another person to his parent’s house for two weeks, but his mom loves Enjolras. She’d be delighted. “You know you can come back home with me, right? Courf will be there, my mom would love to see you, we could have a good time.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I…I’m going to stay here. I’ve already decided on it. It might be good for me to just be alone for awhile, get myself together. Hopefully make up with Grantaire. You know. And I don’t…want to, you know, intrude on you and Courf.”

“I just don’t want you to—wait, what about me and Courf?”

Enjolras shrugs, looking suddenly more uncomfortable than before. “I just want you two to have your, like, time together or whatever.”

“We’re together all the time,” he says, confused, “and you’re always around too, it’s the three of us. Why would it be weird?”

“I just…if you want to have time together. Without me. You know.”

“I don’t—“ Then it hits him, what Enjolras is implying. He laughs out loud and also feels a bit like crying. “You think, me and Courf? Together? That’s not—we’re just—I invited him because of what happened with his parents, and sister, I thought it would be nice for him to go to a home over break.”

“Yeah, but you guys have been spending a lot of time together and I know he’s kind of into you, so—“

“He’s WHAT?” Combeferre nearly falls off the bed. He flails a bit as Enjolras slaps a hand over his mouth. 

“Shit, I didn’t mean—he was drunk one night, I was taking care of him and he just—didn’t have a filter, I probably wasn’t supposed to say anything except I kind of thought you knew? He’s not very…uh…subtle.” 

Screw Enjolras’ obliviousness. Apparently he’s even worse. The irony of being told he’s the object of attraction for one of his best friends by his other best friend who he’s hopelessly in love with is not lost on Combeferre. In fact, it kind of makes him want to cry.

Enjolras takes his hand and leans into him. He probably thinks that the physical touch will help comfort Combeferre instead of making him feel five times worse. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t worry about it, if he hasn’t said anything to you don’t worry, you know Courf’s very open about this sort of thing, it was probably just a drunken ramble. Or I heard the name wrong. I was sort of preoccupied by the vomiting.”

“I don’t—“ _I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want this to be happening_. “I think I should finish packing.”

Enjolras looks devastated. “’Ferre…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“

“No,” he says, “no, it’s not your fault. I’m just—I need to finish packing.” He squeezes Enjolras’ hand to reassure him.

Enjolras stands up and moves towards the door, looking rather defeated. Right before he leaves he turns back. “Um…I just wanted you to know, Courf also told me that you’re changing to the vet program?”

Combeferre’s gut clenches. He’s purposefully avoided telling Enjolras about that, since Enjolras has always been so excited at the prospect of him being a doctor. A politician, a doctor, a lawyer. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. The ultimate trinity of high achievement and public speaking and sleepless nights.

“Yeah,” he sighs. He’d bombed his Immunology final, Monday at noon, after sleeping in with the kitten until 10. He’d barely even glanced at his notes before the test. He decided right after it he was applying, went back home, dashed off the final essay, and sent it in before dinner.

To his surprise, Enjolras smiles at him. “That’s good. That’s really good, ‘Ferre. You haven’t seemed…happy lately, I guess. I hope this helps. You’ll be a wonderful veterinarian.”

A lightness fills his chest, relieving a pressure he hadn’t realized was there. He craves Enjolras’ approval, which is kind of pathetic, but he had been fairly concerned about breaking the news to him. After everything—the shittiness of finals week, the shittiness of today in general, the shittiness of the conversation they just had—this is what he needed.

He stands up and gives Enjolras a swift, hard hug. “Thank you,” he whispers in his ear, trying to ignore the feeling their bodies pressed together, but also gaining incredible comfort from that contact.

Enjolras squeezes back just as tight. “You know I’ll support you in whatever you want, right? Whatever makes you happy. I’m sorry if I ever made you think differently.”

Combeferre just shuts his eyes and hugs tighter in response.  

* * *

 

The six hour long car ride the next day should be awkward, but Courfeyrac is a human being miraculously incapable of being awkward, so it’s fine. He spends the first hundred miles talking about anything and everything—the climate march, the monstrosity of a sweater Jehan wore to their comparative philosophy exam on Wednesday, how excited he is to eat good food, his senior thesis project, how he, Grantaire, Bahorel, and Bossuet went climbing the other day and Bossuet almost fell because he hadn’t tied some knot or another correctly—enough mindless chatter to take Combeferre’s mind off the fact that, apparently, though he wasn’t showing it, Courfeyrac had a… _thing_ for him.

If that’s even true.

He has to remind himself to keep his eyes—and mind—on the road. He can’t pay attention to the way the sun bounces off Courfeyrac’s dark hair, creating a halo of golden light, he can’t pay attention to the length of his eyelashes, shadows on his cheeks, or to the way his lips fall open slightly as he breathes through his mouth when he falls asleep four hours into their drive. He’s not paying attention to any of that. 

God help him, he’s paying attention to that. 

It’s strange, when you discover another’s attraction to you, your sudden, inexplicable, unavoidable interest in them. Impartially, Combeferre knows that Courfeyrac is handsome. Beautiful, even. Charming, certainly. Sexy—he doesn’t try to hide it. Which is part of the problem—he acts that way with every single one of their friends, open and friendly and flirty with anyone and everyone. Which, perhaps, is the reason why he hasn’t noticed anything. Courfeyrac treats him the way he treats everyone—inevitably, as a potential romantic partner. Maybe he isn’t that oblivious after all.

Courfeyrac sleeps as they leave the mountains and drop down to the coast, snow melting and temperature warming mile by mile. It’s so warm by the time they pull into his driveway he’s sweating through the fleece he pulled on that morning. Courfeyrac wakes up moments before the car stops and jumps out right after Combeferre parks, stretching his arms up to the sun, a giant grin on his face. Abruptly, Combeferre remembers that Courfeyrac is also from the coast, a different coast and a different ocean, but the smell of salt on the breeze must be the same. As far as he knows, Courfeyrac hasn’t seen the ocean since he left home three years ago.

He himself hasn’t been home in nearly a year, and the sight of his house, an old Victorian walkup with the citrus and cypress trees his mother planted to remind her of home, the colorful tiles paving the front porch and walking path going around to the backyard, fills him with a feeling of steadiness, of comfort, of childhood. Home.

“It’s beautiful, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac says, coming to stand beside him. “It looks like…you.”

Combeferre looks around and wonders what colorful tiles and citrus trees and sea breezes have to do with him. He’s never seen himself as fitting here, even though he loves it. He feels like he belongs in dark and dusty bookshops, places with long, cold winters and black ice, where sunlight isn’t taken for granted, where pine trees grow instead of palms.

“Warm,” Courfeyrac continues. “Comforting.”

Combeferre’s mind whirls. Is this flirting? Should he be picking up on it? He’s spent so much time tamping down on his feelings, making sure no hint of his affections for Enjolras escape, he’s forgotten what flirting is like. Dear God, he is as bad as Enjolras.

“’Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks, sounding vaguely concerned. “You okay?" 

He shakes himself out of it and opens the trunk to grab his backpack. “Yeah. I’m good. Let’s go in.”

His mother hugs him for a long time and smothers his face with kisses. She does the same to Courfeyrac, who she’s met only twice, and then beckons them into the house with the promise of food. “You look thin,” she comments, squeezing Combeferre’s upper arm as she always does when she sees him again. “You’ve been eating nothing but that ramen?”

“No, mama, I eat…lots of things.”

“Sometimes he forgets to eat,” Courfeyrac chimes in helpfully. Combeferre could kill him.

His mother turns, stern look in her eye. “You _forget_?”

“No! Sometimes. Just when I’m working late.”

She squints at him, frowning. “I know you work hard, bibi, but I hope you’re not working _too_ hard. Is the internship too much?”

It takes him a moment to remember about his fictitious hospital internship, but he thankfully manages to stop himself from saying “What internship?” Unfortunately, Courfeyrac makes it up for him.

“What internship?”

He turns his most intimidating gaze onto Courfeyrac, feels the Laser Glasses Ice Queen Death Glower fully take over his face. “The one I have at the hospital. You know. I’m there Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights and every other Saturday.” He recites his regular work schedule. Courfeyrac whithers under his gaze. “Oh, right. That internship.”

His mother shakes her head and turns back down the hall. Courfeyrac shoots him a questioning glance and he shakes his head. He’ll explain later. He probably should have given Courfeyrac a heads-up to the web of lies he’s spun around his family before inviting him for a two-week holiday.

And then they’re in the kitchen and nothing matters anymore because he’s _home_ and he can’t remember the last time he tasted food this good. Probably the last time he was home.

Tabbouleh and hummus and fresh bread. Small chunks of spicy fried potatoes. Grilled fish with saffron. The smells of the food—“Leftovers,” his mother assures him, “I didn’t go to all this trouble just for your return,” spoken as she gives him another tight hug—combined with the bright kitchen, sun shining through the window and bouncing off the countertops with their bowls of fruit, the rich red and gold cloth of his mother’s hijab, the scent of chilies and saffron and mint, bring tears to his eyes. The feeling of being cared for, of not being stressed out or panicked or worried—he wants to sink into it, forget everything and return to his childhood for a few more years, or a lifetime.

“When will papa and Al be home?” he asks after shoving a sufficient amount of food into his mouth. His mother is an literature teacher at a local college, so she’s off for break too, but his younger brother’s break doesn’t start until the next week, and his father will only have a few days off around Christmas, and he’ll still be on call. She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “They know you’re home today, so they will make an effort I hope. Your father’s shift ends at six.” 

His mother makes small talk with Courfeyrac as he finishes eating and Combeferre goes back to the car to unload the rest of their stuff. He’s half panicked, trying to figure out what to do. He should tell his parents he’s changing his major. He’ll have to someday, they’ll figure it out when he graduates at least. But maybe he can stall and not tell them until after the break. Do it over the phone, maybe. Where he’ll hear their anger and disappointment rather than see it. But maybe doing it over the phone rather than in person would only make their anger worse.

Maybe they’ll understand? Who knows? If he tells them how unhappy he was… 

No, they’ll just focus on his grade in Immunology, instead of on the bigger picture.

They want him to be happy, he knows that much. But, as Courf had said, other people often have an idea of what will make you happy that doesn’t match your own.

He decides to push it to the back of his mind and ignore it for now, which tends to be his coping mechanism. He’ll worry about it when he has time.

* * *

Christmas Day. They aren’t much on gift-giving, his family, but Christmas dinner is always a big deal, mostly because everyone in his extended family has work off and can travel. As a result, it’s usually a three-day extravaganza—his mother’s sister and her husband and two little girls arrive first, and they start cooking, filling the kitchen with delicious scents that make his mouth water. Then, his grandfather on his father’s side arrives, and they sit watching football on television and arguing about the world cup for the rest of his visit. His father’s brother comes on Christmas Day itself, and usually joins in the cooking spree immediately. He’s a chef, and he usually cooks the beautifully pretentious-sounding Gigot D’Agneau Pleureur—slow roasted lamb over thinly sliced potatoes—for the main dinner dish. By the end of the food preparations the table always seems to be groaning under the number of dishes, all of it absolutely delicious, Combeferre’s true definition of comfort food. He usually refrains from eating anything the day before Christmas just to prepare for it.

He’s warned Courfeyrac about the food, and told him to empty his stomach in preparation, but Courfeyrac still eats a bowl of cereal on Christmas morning. The look of absolute astonishment on his face when he sees the smorgasbord sends Combeferre into a fit of laughter he can’t quell for at least five minutes.

“I told you so,” he finally chokes out, sinking into his seat. Courfeyrac still has his mouth hanging open, staring at the lamb, which, alongside it’s pretentious name also has the ostentatious misfortune of being served still sizzling and spitting from the oven on a bed of the potatoes it was cooked over. It’s all very dramatic.

“I shouldn’t have eaten breakfast,” Courfeyrac said, sinking slowly into his own seat. Combeferre’s mother pats him on the shoulder. “You will eat,” she assures him. “It will all taste so good you will keep eating when you are full.”

“It’s true,” his grandfather chimes in. “I’m full after my first serving but I still eat seven more.”

As per tradition, they pass around small presents. Everyone gives everyone else something small, either less than $15 or something they made themselves. Combeferre gets four pairs of socks, a book his brother got on sale, hand painted cards from his little cousins, and a sweater knitted by his mother. She gives Courfeyrac one too, despite the fact she had less than a month notice he was coming at all. He pulls it on at the table. It’s looser than anything Courfeyrac usually wears, the sleeves long enough to cover his knuckles. Combeferre finds himself thinking _he looks adorable_ and quickly tries to shut his brain off by wolfing down several plates of food.

“You’re eating really fast,” one of his cousins says, looking wide-eyed. He swallows a giant mouthful of pomegranate salad. “I’ve been fasting in preparation.”

His mother pats his cheek. “Eat as much as you can, bibi. I still say you look too thin. Too stressed.” 

His uncle swallows a mouthful of wine. “Oh yeah, Combeferre. Tell us about school. Your father says you’ve had a very exciting internship this past year.”

Of course, they can’t get through a family dinner without talking about that. “Oh. Yeah,” he says. “It’s…great.”

“What exactly are you doing again?” his other uncle asks, wiping his daughter’s hummus-smeared face.

“Uh…just at the hospital. It’s like a physician’s assistant internship. I just…follow doctors around and watch them do their stuff, you know?” He’s bullshitting so hard. Courfeyrac is staring at him, fork lifted in the air. His mother beams at him, pride in her eyes.

“Wait,” his brother interrupts. “I thought you were still at that bookshop? You sent me that poetry book I needed for school earlier this year when I couldn’t find it in town—“

“Uh,” Combeferre interrupts. “Yeah, that. I just found it at the bookstore. At the university bookstore.” He tries to plead with his eyes, convince his brother to stop talking. It doesn’t work.

“You told me you got it free from work, man, I didn’t want you to have to buy it for me. Besides, you always say you’re at work when I want to talk to you.”

“I meant my internship. It’s all work.” A high-pitched laugh leaves his mouth. He sounds ridiculous. He sounds desperate.

“Stop antagonizing your brother,” his mother admonishes. “He stopped working at the bookshop last spring, you know that.” She turns to look at him again and smiles warmly. “This internship has so much more opportunity, he knows that. Have you made any good relationships with doctors yet? They could write you letters of recommendation, you know.”

His brother looks confused. Courfeyrac stares down at his plate, frowning. His father looks pride, leaning over to tell something to his grandfather.

He thinks about how much he hated his classes this semester. He thinks about the panic attacks he’s had just thinking about having someone’s life in his hands.

It’s all so wrong.

“Actually,” he says. “Al’s right. I’m still working at the bookshop.”

His mother furrows her brow. “Bibi! No wonder you don’t have time to eat! You don’t need to do that, you know, you know we will help you if you need money.”

He shakes his head. “No, mama. I’m just working at the bookshop. I don’t have a hospital internship. I did for a few weeks at the beginning of summer, like I told you, but I hated it. So I quit.”

All of the eyes at the table are on him. Even his little cousins are silent, staring at him with slightly open mouths.

Well, he might as well go all in.

“I changed my major, too. I don’t want to be a doctor. I’m doing pre-vet instead.”

Still no one speaks. He tries to backpedal, to make it sound better than it is, more acceptable. “It’s all the same classes, practically,” he says, “it’s not like I’ll have to stay in school longer. And I’m still learning all the same stuff about biology and medicine and all that. It’s just—animals, not people.”

“Combeferre,” his mother finally speaks. Her voice is low and angry, in jarring opposition to her previously kind tone. “Why have you lied to us? Why would you do this? To throw away that opportunity—your _future_ —“

“It wasn’t my _future_ , mama, I was miserable! It’s not what I’m meant to do.”

His mother throws up her hands. “Of course it is! You were always so excited about it! You’ve always wanted to help people!”

“I can help people in other ways!”

“You can’t possibly change your major now. Not when you’re this far into it, and to drop your internship like that! Of all the _irresponsible_ things to do—" 

“I didn’t like it!” he shouts, standing up from the table and backing away. “I don’t like it! I’ve been failing my classes and having these…these _panic attacks_ about the thought of having to figure out how to make people better when they might die, and being in the hospital made me sick, it was so sad and cold and people who I saw every day would suddenly just be _gone_ because they _died_ and it wasn’t a big deal! Like the doctors had to just get over it and keep working, like those people didn’t matter at all! I couldn’t do it!”

“Did you say you’ve been failing your classes?” his father asks slowly as though he’s just starting to follow the conversation.

“That’s not the _point_ , papa!” He can feel the flush on his face, the quick cadence of his breathing. If he panics in front of all of them—if he can’t keep it together—

“That is absolutely the point!” His mother stands too. They face each other across the table, the food and presents and contentment of a few minutes ago entirely forgotten. “It’s unacceptable! And you’ve been—you’ve been lying to us for nine months, Combeferre, none of this is acceptable!”

“I can’t major in something that makes me miserable just to be acceptable for you!” 

“You could at least tell us what you’re thinking!”

“Not when this would’ve been your reaction!” His hands are shaking. He grips the back of his chair tightly and wills them to steady.

“Combeferre, I cannot believe you would do this to us—lie to us like you have, not care about anything that matters to us. How could you?”

His father stands abruptly and puts a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Leyla, perhaps this can wait until later. There’s no reason to disrupt dinner, and I believe that this is a conversation that should happen between the three of us alone.”

His mother stares at him, mouth pressed into a thin line, nostrils flared. She takes a deep breath.

“You are right,” she says eventually and sits back down, smoothing out some nonexistent wrinkles in her hijab. “I apologize,” she says to everyone at the table. “Please, let’s continue to enjoy this meal.”

Combeferre stays standing. He can’t seem to stop shaking. His father shoots him a glare. “Sit, Combeferre,” he demands. “We can talk later.”

He forces himself down and picks up his fork. Puts it down and picks up his water glass. Changes his mind and picks up his wine glass, downing it in one go. Everyone is still staring. He wants to bolt, to run for hours, straight into the sea and let it swallow him up. He forces himself to stay seated, gripping the seat of his chair with his hand.

His mother picks up her fork and starts eating. She asks his uncle about his latest work project and he replies, sounding vaguely shocked. Gradually, conversation picks back up around the table, stilted and awkward, but better than the silence and the staring. He forces a bite of lamb into his mouth and swallows it, tasting nothing. He’s still shaking. The fork falls from his fingers and clatters loudly to the table. His mother shoots him another glare.

He feels a gentle touch on his knee, just a few fingers. He glances to his left. Courfeyrac looks at him, smiles gently, tightens his grip. The warmth of his hand is an anchor. Gradually, the shaking subsides. He picks up his fork again and takes another bite. Courfeyrac doesn’t let go for the rest of the meal.

* * *

 

After the meal ends, after his uncle’s delicious buche de noel is demolished, after the dishes are cleaned and most of the family is either departed or ensconced in a happy food coma on the living room couches, his mother grabs him by the arm and drags him bodily into his parent’s bedroom. His father follows, shutting the door behind him.

His mother deposits him on the bed and stares at him with her hands on her hips, radiating anger. He feels intimidated. She can be—and is—an incredibly loving woman, but when she gets angry, she gets very angry.

His father can never quite muster the same wrath, so Combeferre is grateful that he speaks first.

“Why didn’t you just tell us? We want to know about these things. We care.”

He feels like fighting back tonight. He’s so tired. “Clearly. I mean, from the sounds of it I’m just a disappointment as usual, but I’m sure you care deep down.”

“Of course we care,” his mother hisses angrily. “And because of that, I can tell you that we _certainly_ do not support your choice to drop that internship. Or your major. You’re _entire plan_ changes and you don’t bother to even call—“

“Not to mention lying to us both, and bringing it up at this incredibly inopportune time in front of all our family,” his father adds.

“We care about your future,” his mother says. “We always have. But you don’t seem to.”

“I do!” He says angrily. “I care about it enough to not be miserable for the rest of my life!”

“Your father put in a good word for you at that hospital, you told us you were enjoying yourself, what in the world possessed you to—“

“Mama!” he cries. Did you not listen? I’ve been having panic attacks, like, every _week_ , because of my classes and just _thinking_ about the future! It’s not just being a doctor, which terrifies the hell out of me, but so much more school and pressure and I just—I just can’t! And it was even worse with the internship. I was a complete mess for all three weeks I worked there, I could barely sleep I was having so many nightmares, I couldn’t eat—I wasn’t doing a good job, and I was miserable. How was I supposed to stay there?”

“ _Adapt_!” His mother cries. “You can’t expect to get used to a new job so quickly—you needed to give yourself more of a chance.  And don't you dare swear in front of me!“

“I was miserable!” he says again. Like it will make a difference.

His father holds up a hand to cut his mother off. “She’s right, Combeferre. Working in a hospital is stressful, it’s high energy. It takes a bit to get used to, but you do. I was a mess when I first started my residency, I’ve been a mess for the first bit at every hospital I’ve ever worked at! But you give it time and you get used to it. You should have given it a chance, but now you’ve lost the opportunity.” 

“I don’t want that opportunity. I never did.” He buries his head in his hands.

“You don’t get to pick and choose your opportunities,” his mother snaps. 

“Look,” his father sits down next to him. “If you’re unhappy, then something needs to change. We don’t want you to be unhappy. But to drop an internship, flunk your classes, change your major, all without telling us—that’s foolhardy. You should have said something. At least given us a warning. Let us know you were thinking about it.”

“You would have tried to talk me out of it,” he says.

“Of course we would have!” his mother says. “It’s foolish!”

“Of course you would have said that.” His head is starting to throb. “Panic attacks, mama. Every week or more. Do you know what it’s like, mama? Papa?” He turns to look at them. Both have blank looks on their faces. His father shakes his head slightly.

 “It’s like you’re trapped in a tiny, claustrophobic room, and you don’t know where it is or where you are, you don’t know anything. And you’re suffocating. You’re dying and there’s nothing you can do about it because you can’t move, you can’t see, you can’t even feel the ground you’re standing on. Everything’s gone and you’re just alone and you can’t breathe. And you just have to wait till it’s over. I don’t even know how long some of mine lasted, I was so far gone. And that’s what I did when I got home from work, in the bathroom at work. And at night I’d wake up from nightmares and have them. And I still have them—I had them all the time this semester just because I couldn’t seem to do well in one stupid class. I don’t care if this isn’t what you want me to do. Nothing’s worth that.” He remembers, suddenly, viscerally, the panic attack he had at the hospital when Enjolras was hurt. Trapped and out of his mind and helpless until Grantaire came and drew him out of it. The memory makes him nauseous.

His mother looks taken aback at his tirade. When she speaks, her voice is softer. “Of course we don’t want you to feel that way, but you can get help for that sort of thing. You can see people.”

“I _did_ ,” he hisses. “And you know what they told me? That I should change the things in my life that are giving me anxiety severe enough to black out entire hours of my day.”

His parents both look a bit speechless after that. He feels a flush of victory. He hasn’t even felt the beginnings of panic yet.

“I just wish you’d told us,” his mother says finally. “Given us a warning. Told us you were so…unhappy.”

“Why would I?” he says bitterly. “I knew this would happen. Just another disappointment in a long line of disappointments from me.”

“Combeferre! Why would you say—“ his father starts, but all of a sudden he’s had enough. He’s twenty, he doesn’t have to stay locked in his parent’s bedroom explaining every last detail of his pathetic life to them anymore. He can leave whenever he feels like it.

“I’m done for now,” he announces. “I’m not doing a hospital internship, I’m going to keep working at that bookstore cause I love it there, I’m switching my major and I _promise_ I’ll still graduate on time, and I’m going to keep going to the…therapist.” He still stumbles over that word, still finds it almost shameful to admit he has to enlist an outside person to help him deal with his feelings. He forges on anyway. “Does that cover all the bases? I hope so. I’m going to bed. Thanks for dinner and the gifts.”

He crosses the room to the door and refrains from slamming it behind him, a very mature gesture, he thinks. He stops in his room to grab a jacket and his wallet and then leaves the house, creeping past the rest of his family softly talking in the living room and into the dark and quiet of the Christmas night streets.

He doesn’t make it to the end of the street before he hears footsteps running up behind him. Courfeyrac slows to match his pace, breathing slightly labored. He doesn’t say anything, just walks. Combeferre appreciates the silence. He doesn’t think he can say another word tonight without breaking down. Now that he’s out of the house, residual adrenaline and anxiety are coiling in his gut, making him feel sick and shaky.

He knows this path well, he must have walked it a hundred thousand times as a kid and a teenager. Down the road three blocks, then left into the alley. In the summer months, a large plum tree drapes its branches over a back fence; they used to come here every day and eat as many as they could in one go, mouths and fingers stained purple. He touches a bare branch as they pass. The alley joins a creek where it flows up from it’s piping below asphalt to rejoin the sunlight and open air. And down further, here—the bridge the neighborhood kids built when he was nine or ten, makeshift from pilfered two-by-fours and downed logs. It’s a miracle it’s still intact, not yet washed out by storms or spring flooding. He hops across it with the ease of practice while Courfeyrac gasps and winces behind him, losing his balance and regaining it just as quickly. Follow the running path on the other side of the creek until the woodchips turn into smoothly-worm pebbles and the creek flattens out, flowing over sand rather than boulders. And there it is: beyond the rough, pebble-strewn beach—the ocean.

He settles down on a piece of driftwood, close enough to the waves to feel spray every so often. Courfeyrac settles beside him. After a minute of deliberation, he takes off his shoes and digs his toes into the sand.

“You’re feet will get cold,” Combeferre warns him. Courfeyrac just shrugs and shoots him a grin. “I miss the feeling,” he explains, then falls into silence. His body is a warm press against Combeferre’s side, blocking the breeze and the nighttime cold. He lets out a deep sigh and feels some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders, neck, and back. Closing his eyes, he lets the saltiness of the breeze and cold of the spray surround him. A fog is building over the water, obscuring some of the lights of the city on the other side of the bay. All he can hear are waves and Courfeyrac’s steady breathing.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Courfeyrac says after awhile.

Combeferre squeezes his eyes closed. “You shouldn’t be. It didn’t go well. Obviously.”

“You told them, though. You were brave. Not to mention, you applied to the vet program. I never really congratulated you on that. I’m—well, you knew my stance on the subject. But I’m happy for you.”

Combeferre thinks about the pre-vet application, the feeling of contentment and _rightness_ when he nursed that tiny kitten back to health, the prospect of taking mammology instead of anatomy and physiology. A heady feeling of relief is gradually spreading throughout his body, despite his residual anxiety from the conversation with his parents. He doesn’t have to do what other people want him to. He doesn’t have to hide it from his parents anymore. The rumbling pool of anxiety that seems to be permanently settled in the pit of his stomach empties out a little, leaving him feeling lighter and more hopeful than he’s felt since the failure of the internship.

“I’m happy too,” he says eventually.

“Thanks,” he adds a few minutes later. “For—at dinner, you helped. You helped me not panic. And. For coming with me. For being here. Now.”

Courfeyrac presses their shoulders together. “Of course. I wouldn’t be…I mean, of course.”

Combeferre swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t…nice when you suggested the vet application. But—I, well. Thank you for pushing me to do it. I wouldn’t have—I was thinking about it, but I wouldn’t have had the courage to if you hadn’t pushed me. I’m too scared. Too…cowardly.”

Courfeyrac turns to him, and there’s a flash of anger in his eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that about yourself, ‘Ferre, you never…you never _see_ , do you?”

“What?” he asks, bewildered.

“How could you ever say you’re cowardly? You take everything on. You take every _one_ on, Christ, you care more about every single one of your friends than you care about yourself or your own happiness, you _always_ put everyone else first, you’re our guide, you’re the one who holds us all together and shows us which way we need to go, and you call yourself _cowardly_? Please—you just—you don’t understand how fucking _good_ you are, do you?” Sometime turning his tirade, he’s gotten a lot closer to Combeferre, hand clutching his jacket, face close enough to see the glint of his eyes despite the darkness.

He doesn’t understand how it happens. A soft touch on his lips, deepening when he doesn’t immediately draw back. A hand on his face, warming the wind-numbed skin. Courfeyrac’s mouth tastes like wine and garlic, a hint of sweetness on his lips from dessert and somehow the combination is the best thing Combeferre’s ever tasted.

Courfeyrac is kissing him and clutching and his jacket and cradling his face like he’s something precious and breakable, something that can’t be let go.

Courfeyrac is kissing him, and Courfeyrac is very good at kissing.

Maybe it’s just that Combeferre hasn’t had anything resembling action since a drunken make-out session at a party freshman year, but maybe it’s that Courfeyrac has a lot of practice. He licks into Combeferre’s mouth and Combeferre can’t help the tiny moan that escapes as he reaches forward to twist his hand in the fabric of Courfeyrac’s jacket. Courfeyrac gasps and moves his hand to cup the back of Combeferre’s neck. Warmth spreads through him from the points of contact between them and the sensible part of his brain—the one telling him he should probably pull back and stop this and talk it out a bit—seems a bit fuzzy, losing to the other part singing _yes, yes, yes this is so right this is so good_  

And then, abruptly, a face enters his mind. Enjolras, smiling at him and biting his lip, hair falling out of the bun he’s pulled it into, silhouetted against the kitchen window in the washed-out morning light, so beautiful it makes Combeferre’s breath catch in his chest.

With a gasp, he pulls back from Courfeyrac, loosening his hand from the other man’s jacket and scooting back on the log to put some distance between them. It takes Courfeyrac a moment to react, frozen in place, his eyes still closed. He too moves back instinctually before his eyes fly open, panicked and scared. 

“I’m—“ he lifts his fingers up to his lips, looking shell-shocked. “I’m so—sorry—“ He jumps to his feet and starts to back away. Combeferre stands too, holding out his hands, unsure of what to do.

“Courf—“ he starts, but is interrupted. “No,” Courfeyrac says. “No, I shouldn’t have—I know—I see the way you look at Enjolras. I’m so—God, I’m so sorry, Combeferre.”

Hand still pressed to his lips, he grabs his shoes and turns, running back the way they came, disappearing quickly into the darkness and fog. It takes Combeferre a moment to process what’s happening, to feel the slight trickle of panic when Courfeyrac mentions Enjolras, to start running after him. “Wait!” he yells, “Courfeyrac! Wait!” There’s no answer. He can’t even hear Courfeyrac’s footfalls ahead of him. Eventually he slows, breathing hard from running uphill. The creek roars over its boulders next to him, the fog drifting between tree branches and against the sea cliffs, hiding the lights of the neighborhood.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck.” He starts running again, but he knows he’s lost Courfeyrac ahead of him. Knows he’s probably lost him for good, thanks to his ridiculous reaction to a tiny kiss. Can’t he do anything right?

Slowing, he rests his hand on the back of his neck. He can still feel the warmth of Courfeyrac’s hand.

It felt so right. Like coming to the end of a long race and finally slowing down, like arriving home after being gone for years and years. And yet. It had felt equally wrong, almost like a betrayal. To think of Enjolras when Courfeyrac was right there in his arms, perfect and warm and so, so good.

He slumps down against a rock beside the stream. He’s freezing cold, and so, so tired of it all, but he can’t go home yet, certainly can’t go to sleep. He pulls his thin jacket tightly around his shoulders and lets himself cry.

* * *

It’s New Year’s Eve, and for the first time since he was about fourteen, Grantaire isn’t drinking.

He’s sitting on the roof with Eponine, wrapped in blankets watching random fireworks go off, and he’s drinking tea, for Christ’s sake. Green tea. With honey.

Eponine is far too kind for her own good. She could be at any number of bars or clubs downtown enjoying herself, but instead she’s sitting with his pathetic ass, drinking kombucha. He doesn’t deserve her. 

He tells her as much.

She slaps him lightly. “You don’t deserve me,” she acknowledges, “but this isn’t a problem, okay Grantaire? I’m happy to be here with you.” She gives him a clumsy side-hug and rests her head on his shoulder. He _so_ doesn’t deserve her.

She’d been livid when he finally got home after his drunken escapade three weeks ago. As if her wrath wasn’t enough, Feuilly and Combeferre kept their word and told Jehan, Bahorel, and Musichetta, all three of whom kept eagle eyes on him until they finally left for break, leaving Grantaire alone with a slightly-less livid Eponine.

Who still won’t let him leave the house alone.

He’s honestly about to kill her, but deep down he’s grateful. He’s grateful now as she leans against him, a quiet warmth at his side.

“Cosette’s coming back tonight,” she says suddenly.

“Oh, good,” he replies. It’ll be nice to have people back in the house—it’s been surprisingly lonely with only the three of them around, and he honestly can’t wait until it’s noisy and overcrowded and messy again. It’s gotten to the point where he’s cleaned every room in the place, including his own, just out of boredom. That’s bad news. 

Well, not bad news. Just uncharacteristically responsible. Grantaire doesn’t do cleaning. He’ll probably re-enroll himself at University next.

Which again wouldn’t really be bad news but… 

The point is, he’s bored and he misses his friends.   

A car pulls up in front of their house and a bundled figure with a distinctly blond head emerges. Eponine surges forward to look. 

“Is it Cosette?” Grantaire asks.

Eponine turns back to him, a strange look on her face. “No,” she says, “its…Enjolras?”

An icy feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. “Why?” Is all he can think to say. Then, “I didn’t even know he was in town!”

Eponine shakes her head. “Me neither.”

Enjolras heads up their front path and knocks insistently on the front door. They’re both frozen, staring down at him. 

Eventually, Grantaire clears his throat. “Um. I think I’ll just. Stay up here.”

Eponine snaps out of her shock. “Right. Of course. I’ll go.” She slides through the window and disappears. Below him, Enjolras raps on the door again. Grantaire can read his impatience in the shifting of his feet, the hunching of his shoulders. What could he possibly want?

He hears the door open, Eponine’s muffled greeting, and Enjolras disappears from his line of sight into the house. He sighs and lays back on the roof, looking up at the slate-grey sky. Hopefully, Eponine won’t let Enjolras know he’s even home.

Of course, no such luck. Footsteps up the stairs, and he assumes its Eponine before he realizes that Enjolras hasn’t left yet and she probably wouldn’t have just left him downstairs alone to rejoin him on the roof. Which means she’s coming up to get him. He groans slightly and considers wrapping himself completely in blankets and refusing to talk to her. Then he remembers he’s mature now—he cleans the house—and refrains. With great difficulty.

To his complete and utter shock, the person who pokes their head out the window isn’t Eponine. It’s Enjolras.

“Hey,” Enjolras says awkwardly. “Um. How are you?”

Grantaire stares at him. “Spectacular,” he says eventually. Enjolras blushes slightly. It’s pretty adorable. Not that Grantaire notices. 

“Um. Can I talk to you for a second?”

Grantaire laughs. This is surreal. He moves over and tosses a blanket in Enjolras’ direction. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

Enjolras climbs onto the roof, sliding out of the window rather awkwardly and perching uncomfortably on top of the blanket. They sit in silence for a moment, both looking straight ahead. 

“I think I owe you an apology,” Enjolras says eventually, after a long silence.

Grantaire doesn’t speak. He can’t think of anything to say. Of all the things to come out of Enjolras’ mouth, this wasn’t what he expected.

Enjolras continues. It sounds like he’s forcing every word past his lips with a considerable amount of effort. “I…wasn’t nice to you. About your flyer. About anything. It was a good flyer, I was just…angry about other things and I took it out on you.”

“It’s okay if you didn’t like the flyer,” Grantaire mumbles awkwardly. “You don’t…you didn’t, like, have to. There’s no obligation to like my art.”

“But I _did_ like your art,” Enjolras stresses. “I mean, it wasn’t like any flyer I would have designed myself, but it was still good. And it wasn’t about the flyer being good or not, it was about me being mad that I wasn’t included enough in the decision making, and…I guess more like…feeling bad that I couldn’t get it done. That I haven’t gotten anything done for this action, when it’s one of the most important things of the year. And I’m too…too _busy_ to help!” He spits the word, like it’s something ugly and disgusting, unacceptable. Grantaire’s slightly taken aback by the anger in his voice—anger not directed towards him, but towards Enjolras himself.

“I mean,” he says, unsure of what to say. “It’s okay.”

Enjolras turns his eyes onto him and Grantaire is trapped, suspended in the intense gaze, staring back just as deeply. “ _No_ ,” says Enjolras, emphatic and forceful. Using his “leadership” voice that Grantaire’s heard only once before, at that first meeting. “It’s not okay. Please don’t say that to me. I was cruel and it was unfair to you and I don’t deserve you just brushing it off and saying it’s okay. Because it wasn’t. And I’m sorry about being an asshole about you not coming to meetings, too. I’m just sorry for being an asshole for no reason in general. But don’t say it’s okay. I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry and…I care, I guess.”

“Okay,” says Grantaire, dumbfounded.

Enjolras breaks eye contact. “That’s…that’s it, I guess.” He sounds slightly confused, as if he expected Grantaire to go all out and punch him, or push him off the roof, or at least yell at him. But honestly, thinks Grantaire, this is a good way to end it. Hear Enjolras’ apology, make a truce, and hopefully not deal with it again. He can stay away from meetings and stay away from flyer-making and stay away in general, and then there won’t be anything else Enjolras can get mad about.

“I guess,” Enjolras says. He pauses and bites his lip. And Grantaire’s still not paying attention but _holy shit_ he looks hot when he does that. But he’s not paying attention, so it’s not like it affects him at all. “I guess I’ll just go now,” Enjolras finishes lamely.  

Just then, a cab pulls up in front of the house. Cosette gets out, dragging a massive suitcase behind her, and looks up at the house with a smile. The door slams open and Eponine barrels out, jumping at Cosette and crushing her in a hug. Cosette’s grin widens and she drops her suitcase, which overbalances and smashes on its side to the sidewalk.

“Wait,” says Grantaire after a minute, scooting to the edge of the roof for a better look. “Are they…kissing?”

Enjolras shifts forward to join him. They’re kneeling on the edge of the roof like two terrible spies, trying to avoid being seen even though both girls have a direct view up towards them.

“…yeah…” Enjolras says after a moment, sounding shell-shocked. “I thought…I thought Marius?”

“I…” Grantaire stares at them. “I thought so too?”

“Maybe if Cosette’s off Marius she’ll pay more attention at meetings,” Enjolras mutters under his breath. Grantaire definitely walked in on Cosette and Marius passionately kissing in the pantry a few days before break, so he thinks it’s probably not that simple. He decides not tell that to Enjolras.

The two pull away from each other and start talking animatedly, the threads of their voices drifting up to the roof. Eponine turns and glares at both of them. “Stop staring at us!” she shouts, flipping them off. They both jerk back from the edge simultaneously and laugh self-consciously when they make eye contact.

“Well,” Grantaire says. “That’s nice, I suppose.” No wonder Eponine’s been so giggly lately.

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees, looking down and smiling softly.

The church bells down the street start ringing. 1, 2, 3, 4. Fireworks burst up from downtown, from the hills to the north, from a thousand rooftops. He can hear people cheering from surrounding houses. 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. Eponine and Cosette are kissing again. 10, 11, 12. The cheering continues. The fireworks reflect in the river and light the clouds with an eerie glow. Enjolras is still staring at his feet.

“Happy new year, Enjolras,” Grantaire says quietly. Enjolras glances up and meets his eyes for a split second before staring up at the fireworks. “Yeah,” he says.  "Happy new year." 

Grantaire lifts his empty mug of tea up in a toast. Enjolras’ mouth twitches into a grin and he fistbumps it.

They don’t say anything else, but it feels like a truce. A forgiveness, maybe. A new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify-I headcannon Combeferre's mother as Lebanese and a practicing Muslim and his father as French and not religious. They celebrate a sort of Christmas because his dad grew up celebrating it in a secular manner, but it's more a family reunion than a holiday to them. There was a section in this chapter explaining all that but it was long and rambling and unnecessary, so I cut it.


	7. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy it's been awhile.  
> This chapter was super hard for me to write and I'm hoping it lives up to my own expectations. Shit goes down.  
> The good news is 2 things! #1 my semester is over so I am Finally Free and I can actually write #2 the next chapter is already halfway done woooo.
> 
> WARNING: This chapter has some violence.

JANUARY

Grantaire is glad when people start to trickle back into the house after the New Year. Azelma’s home, and Cosette and Eponine, but they’re so absorbed in one another that it’s like being home alone, except he’s slightly nervous to walk into any room for the fear of walking in on them kissing.

Which is adorable. But still weird because of Marius, and he’s a bit too nervous to ask.

Jehan bursts in two days after New Year’s and immediately envelops Grantaire, standing at the sink washing three days worth of dirty dishes, in a violent hug.

“I brought you _so much squash_ ,” they say, “and sourdough starter, oh my god Grantaire we’re gonna make so much bread. And a bunch of seeds for the garden.”

Grantaire turns and hugs back. “I missed you, you asshole,” he says. “You can’t all ever leave at once again.”

Jehan sits down at the kitchen table as Grantaire finishes the dishes and talks and talks, telling him about their break, the concerts they saw, the food they made. “I’m going to make so much food for us this semester, Grantaire, you’re gonna die. I’m not gonna go to class, I’m just gonna cook. Maybe I’ll become a chef.”

“You’d be a good chef,” Grantaire says, thinking about some of Jehan’s previous creations. The squash salsa was high on his list, though he was also fond of Jehan’s inexplicably good vegan, sugar free chia seed and zucchini muffins.

“So how was it here?” Jehan asks as Grantaire sits down at the table with a cup of lukewarm coffee. “I heard about Cosette and Ep.”

“Did you?” Grantaire doesn’t know why he sounds so surprised. Cell phones exist, after all. “It’s pretty adorable.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know Eponine was polyamorous but I’m so glad it worked out with Marius—he and Cosette are so happy, too—“

“Wait, what?” Grantaire interrupts. He always feels like he’s the last to know about this sort of thing, but this time it totally isn’t fair because Eponine is _his_ best friend. Jehan blinks at him with owlish eyes. “How else would you think that was going to work out?” they ask.

“I…assumed Cosette and Marius broke up,” he says, though he hadn’t really assumed that, he’d just been confused.

Jehan snorts and takes a gulp of Grantaire’s coffee. “You don’t think you would have heard about that from Marius? He would have been moping around everywhere and to everyone.”

“Eponine didn’t tell me. She’s never…she’s never done this before.”

“Well did you ask?” Jehan questions pragmatically. “And just because she hasn’t done it before doesn’t mean anything, really.”

“I suppose,” Grantaire acknowledges. Still, he and Ep spent a lot of time together over break. He would have thought she’d say _something_.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jehan says, “I heard you and Enjolras kissed and made up.”

“We didn’t kiss,” he responds automatically, flushing. Jehan smirks. “How do you even know that?”

“He told Combeferre he talked to you and Combeferre told Bahorel when he asked about how Enjolras was doing and Bahorel texted me. Look,” Jehan pulls out their phone and scrolls through, pulling up a text and shoving the phone at Grantaire.

 _OMG too cute_ the text reads _may B they’ll both stop acting lik some1 shit in there shoes now._

Bahorel is a horrible texter. More importantly, he’s a dick.

“I was _not_ acting like someone…shit in my shoes! That’s not even, like, a phrase.”

“You were pretty mopey,” Jehan tells him, eyes wide and innocent again. Grantaire sighs and decides not to reply. Because if he’s honest with himself, his mood has taken a drastic turn for the better since he and Enjolras talked, which is totally pathetic since it’s not like he was _that_ upset.

Jehan claps their hands. “It’s too cold in this kitchen. I’m gonna make something.” They stoop over and pull four full-sized butternut squash from their knapsack. Grantaire vaguely wonders how they fit in there, but he’s too excited about whatever Jehan wants to make to dwell on it for too long. “We’re making vegan butternut squash muffins,” Jehan declares, and points at Grantaire. “Get out the muffin tin and the blender.”

Grantaire complies, and loses himself in Jehan’s chatter and the comforting sounds of a kitchen being used again. Halfway through, Azelma wanders in and she ends up making soup out of some frozen corn and kale leftover from the fall. Cosette and Eponine wander in later, conveniently after all the food is ready, and they circle around the table, eating and catching up. Halfway through dinner, it starts to snow, and Jehan bursts outside and twirls in the backyard as the flakes tumble down and tangle in their long hair. They’re still sitting around the table, picking at the remains of the muffins, when Bahorel bangs in through the front door, carrying bags of climbing gear and covered in sand and dirt. He gives Grantaire a long, tight hug, eats the rest of the slightly burned muffins, and starts regaling them with near-death mishaps from his trip.

Grantaire glances around the table, at his friends, and feels suddenly, painfully whole. Like he has a home. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this contented.

That night, however, he can’t sleep. He lies awake for hours, staring at his ceiling, listening to the pipes bang. He’s wired—they stayed up so late talking, he can’t stop thinking now. He has to work in the morning, early, so he really does need to sleep but he’s overanalyzing his own contentment, looking for a crack, something to tell him he’s wrong, he doesn’t really have friends, or a home, or anything. He’s just the same old R, fucking around and fucking up. 

Except he isn’t. He _is_ different now. Maybe not on the inside, but in the way he’s acting. And maybe he still craves the taste of beer every night at dinner, and the numbing pleasure of a shot of vodka whenever the sadness creeps in. And sometimes when his alarm rings for a morning shift at the coffee shop he lays in bed way longer than he should trying to find the motivation to get up, to face another day, to find meaning in a routine of work and home and sleep and work again. And sometimes he still snaps at his friends, sometimes he does sleep through an entire weekend, sometimes he locks himself in his room and paints and paints until finally the unhappiness clamoring in his brain quiets and he can sleep.  

But he comes out of his room eventually. Showers and apologizes to his friends. Forces himself up out of bed and across town to work. Pours himself another glass of kombucha instead of giving in to temptation and sneaking off to the bar down the street. Finds meaning in a particularly delicious dinner, or in turning the frozen compost, or in finally climbing a 5.11, or in making Jehan laugh. Sometimes even in his own art, if he’s very generous with himself. And isn’t that what matters?

He’s not sure. And he’s still awake. So he gets up.

He has a few works in progress that he _should_ work on—one of them is even a commission, his first in awhile, so that’s definitely what he should be spending his time on. He updated his website for the first time in over a year, and had a commission request two days later.  Sometimes, life is surprising.

He stares at the commission for awhile, makes a few halfhearted attempts at shading.  Then he starts sketching out something else. First just lines and the vague idea of colors. Then some more detail—a skyline, a hazy moon, the edge of a roof. Fireworks.

He leaves it around 4 AM unfinished and collapses into bed for a few hours sleep before work. It’s more abstract than his usual work, relying mostly on color and shadows to form the scene, but it’s still easy to tell what it depicts. Two silhouettes on a rooftop against a backdrop of fireworks. One of the figures shines brightly, the light from the fireworks reflecting off his hair. It’s a messy painting, not even close to being one of his best, but it needed to come out of his mind and be put on canvas.

* * *

 

His contentment lasts about two weeks, as everyone else arrives back in town and the semester begins. It shatters abruptly when everyone becomes consumed in preparations for the rally. The Rally—he’s begun to think of it as a proper noun, capital letters and all. It seems like it’s the biggest thing to ever hit the city—beyond that, Enjolras and company seem to be looking at it as though it alone has the potential to change the course of history. Yeah, it’s big, yeah it’s important—Grantaire’s been involved in enough conversations and planning sessions to know that much—but he remains unconvinced that it’s as important as everyone seems to think. Certainly not important enough to lose sleep over.

Which his entire house is doing, save for Azelma who has patently declared her disinterest and has taken to spending more and more time at her friends’ houses, away from the madness their place has become. Even Eponine’s thrown her lot in and stays up late huddled at the kitchen table with Jehan, Joly and Bahorel.

Grantaire wants to bash his head against the nearest hard surface. Yeah, he’s trying harder with the whole “optimism” thing, but the rhetoric pouring out of all his friends’ mouths makes him want to vomit. Or, more accurately, take everyone by the shoulders, shake them vigorously, and remind them that they’re up against not only the trillion dollar fossil fuel industry but also the entire capitalist system. 

Which, knowing this group of people, would only get everyone more fired up.

He compensates for his frustration by taking more shifts at work, climbing more—honing his bouldering skills, since Bahorel is so busy with The Rally he rarely goes—and painting. He has the misfortune of entering the kitchen to wash out a few brushes on a Wednesday afternoon just as Jehan, Joly, and Eponine are packing up the small mountain of papers covering the table and getting ready to go out.

“You should come to the meeting tonight, R,” Eponine mentions almost casually, as though this isn’t a completely ludicrous idea. “You can get caught up on everything going on around you.” 

“No thanks,” he says mildly. He gestures with his brushes. “I’m just…painting right now. Getting stuff done.” 

Eponine nods. “Yeah, but you’ve been working all day. Come on, take a break, come hang out.”

“You guys don’t hang out. You plan how to overthrow the government while drinking beer.”

Eponine rolls her eyes. “It’s not quite that drastic. And if you’re worried about the alcohol, don’t. No one will, if you’re there.”

“Great,” he says sarcastically, “fuck up everyone’s night just to bring me along.”

“Grantaire,” Eponine sounds pained. Jehan interrupts her.

“You’re planning on coming to the rally, right?”

Grantaire hadn’t been, but looking at their wide, hopeful eyes he can’t bring himself to say so. “I guess so,” he says. “To, like, support you guys or whatever.”

“Great,” Jehan claps him on the arm. “If you’re planning on that, you have to come to at least one meeting to get caught up on the day-of plans. This thing's next week, you ought to come tonight. They’ll be lots of others there too who aren’t in the group but are planning on participating, it won’t be weird.”

“I don’t—“

“Enjolras would love to see you there,” Jehan adds, eyes wide and far too innocent. Grantaire could strangle them.

“He doesn’t want to—“ he starts, but Eponine interrupts. 

“Look, Jehan’s right, you’ve gotta come to one meeting before the rally, you might as well come to this one. If nothing else, look at it as a chance to hang out with us a bit. I know you’ve been avoiding us because of this. You haven’t even seen Combeferre since break, which sucks of you, by the way.”

He can’t say no, not without sounding like an asshole, which is one of the things he’s trying to get better about. And it’s true, he hasn’t seen Combeferre. He keeps meaning to drop by the bookstore but it always ends up being too late or too early when he passes by. Plus, they’re out of every coffee that isn’t decaf, and a cup sounds nice. So he sighs, nods, and gets his coat and sketchbook.

He immediately regrets his decision when they walk through the door of the Corinth and he comes face to face with Enjolras, whose eyes are very blue and very wide and whose mouth is dropped open in shock. 

“Grantaire?” he says, like he can’t quite believe he’s not seeing things. 

“Yep,” he says lamely. “How’s it going?”

“It’s good,” says Enjolras, sounding breathless. “Just doing…this.” He gestures vaguely with his hand. His “this” could refer to anything from the entire Corinth to his act of standing and talking. Grantaire takes that he means rally planning. He also can practically hear Enjolras stopping himself from asking  _Why are you here?_

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about it. Sounds like it’s going well.”

“It’s going terribly,” Enjolras says, still staring at him. “We’re not ready or prepared and it is going to be a disaster. I haven’t slept in two days.”

Come to think of it, he does look a bit glazed over. Maybe that’s why he’s still staring, or why he hasn’t said something mean yet.

“I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen anymore,” Grantaire says, gesturing at Combeferre, who is sitting at a table cradling a cup of coffee and staring intently at the back of Courfeyrac’s head as he talks with Marius.

Enjolras shakes his head. “He hasn’t slept in two days either. So he can’t be mad at me about it.”

Grantaire has the sudden disturbing desire to pick them both up and put them in the nearest bed. He shakes his head to dispel the image. Enjolras’ eyes are red and bloodshot and his normally perfect hair is standing straight up in places. It still looks perfect, of course, but Grantaire can definitely tell that this is not Enjolras at his prime.

Which is why he finds himself speaking. “Well, if you need any help…I mean if there’s anything I can do…”

He has to physically stop himself from slapping a hand over his own mouth. What the hell is he offering? He does _not_ want to be involved in this. No no no no no.

But Enjolras’ eyes light up and he blinks for the first time since the start of their conversation. “Grantaire, _really_? Would you really? Even just for the hour of the meeting, if you could just input names and emails into the Listserv that would help me _so so_ much….” He’s already turning away, beckoning Grantaire to follow, and he has no choice. He’s helpless in the all-consuming tide of Enjolras.

Which is how, five minutes later, he finds himself in front of a laptop with a spreadsheet and a three-page-long list of names and email addresses. He pokes the information cautiously into the spreadsheet. He doesn’t remember the last time he used Excel, but it was way too long ago for him to remember how it works.

Eponine approaches, bearing a cup of coffee, and her eyes almost bug out of her head when she sees him. “Are you… _helping_?” she asks, incredulous.

“Thank you for the tone of surprise,” he says dryly. He tries to backspace a misspelled name. It deletes everything in the cell. Who designed this?

“You, like…don’t have to do this,” Eponine says, putting the coffee down. “I swear I wasn’t trying to get you to this meeting so you could do work for us.”

“I know,” he says. “But they haven’t slept in two days,” he gestures towards Combeferre and Enjolras, now huddled together over a stack of papers.

Eponine snorts. “They never sleep anyway.”

The meeting drags on, discussions going in circles, analysis of every possible outcome, play-by-plays of the day-of schedule, a quick training for people like Grantaire on how to avoid police confrontation, appropriate signs and chants, and protest safety. Grantaire spends most of it typing email addresses. Near the end, Combeferre slumps down in the chair next to him. "Hi," he says in a dull voice.  Grantaire pauses and makes sure the spreadsheet is saved.

“How’s it going?” he asks. Combeferre’s eyes are bloodshot and his dark circles look like smudges of charcoal. He takes of his glasses and rubs at his eyes.

“I’m…” he sighs and cradles his head in his hands. “I’m so tired.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “You’re not looking too great, to be honest. You should sleep.”

Combeferre shakes his head slightly. “Too much to do. We’re so behind, and this thing is happening, like…so soon. Oh god. So soon.”

“You’re going to collapse and die if you don’t sleep,” Grantaire points out. Combeferre groans. “I know. But I can’t. When I do lay down all I can think about is everything I have to do and then I can’t sleep and end up just getting up and doing stuff and feeling bad I wasted time trying to sleep.”

“Well,” says Grantaire, gesturing towards the laptop. “Anything I can do to help you guys out…” This time, he’s slightly less surprised when he says it.

Combeferre smiles weakly. “Yeah. Thank you so much for doing that, Enjolras was panicking about it before the meeting. Listen, though, one more thing if you have time…we’re trying to make banners and posters, and we’re just running out of time to do it…if you’ve got time, do you think you could…”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says immediately. His commissions can wait if it means Combeferre’s dark circles get lighter. “What do you want them to say?”

Combeferre looks like Grantaire’s just taken the weight of the world off his shoulders. “Oh my god, R, thank you. You have no idea…” he pulls out a folder and starts rummaging through the sheaves of loose paper. “I’ve got a page here somewhere with the phrases we want on signs…um…there’s some hashtags we want to use and stuff…” he pulls out a paper with a triumphant flourish and passes it to Grantaire. “Here! We have all the cardboard and poster board you’ll need, I think most of it’s at your house already…and spray paint, so you can kind of just go for it.”

 _Spray paint_. Grantaire hasn’t used that stuff since he gave up the art of graffiti a few years ago. He’s going to have _so much fun_ with this.

Combeferre slumps back into his chair, the papers from his folder still spread out in a messy array in front of him. He turns his head and fixes his eyes on Courfeyrac. He looks half asleep, so Grantaire takes the opportunity to finish typing in the last few email addresses. He saves the spreadsheet again and emails it to Enjolras before pushing the laptop away and turning towards Combeferre.

“I haven’t seen you since break,” he says. “How was it?”

Combeferre jumps slightly at the sound of his voice. “Huh? Oh…oh, yeah. Um. It was good,”

“You went home? And brought Courf, right?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre mumbles, dropping his eyes to his lap. “Told my parents about the vet school thing.”

“Nice, man. How’d they take it?”

Combeferre’s laugh sounds hollow. “Not very well.”

Grantaire shrugs. “At least they know now. Are your classes better this semester?”

Combeferre shakes his head. “I don’t even know, honestly. I’ve been so preoccupied with this I’ve barely been paying any attention to what’s going on. But I think so? I like mammology.”

“Nice,” Grantaire says again. They fall silent. Grantaire drinks the last dregs of his coffee. Combeferre returns to staring at Courfeyrac.

“Did…” Grantaire ventures eventually, “did, uh, something happen between you two?” He’s not quite sure why he’s asking. He’s terrible at feelings and problems and everything else that might be considered personal conversation.

Combeferre sighs and drops his head to the table. Papers flutter at the impact. “We…” he pauses for a long, conspicuous moment as though he can’t quite find the right word to say. “We had a disagreement. We haven’t talked much since. Not about anything other than this.” He gestures at the papers scattered around him and at the bustling café as a whole. 

“Oh,” Grantaire says. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, fighting? Those two, who always seemed so close and so solid, a sturdy support for Enjolras, each other, and the entire rest of the group? What could they possibly be fighting about?

“I’m an idiot,” Combeferre moans. “It’s all my fault.” 

“I’m sure it’s not,” says Grantaire blankly.

“No,” Combeferre sighs. “It is. I fucked it up, I’ve been avoiding him since we got home. I’m the one who’s scared to death. Even if it wasn’t my fault at first, it definitely is now.”

“What happened?” Grantaire asks, baffled. “Surely it can’t be anything so bad he won’t listen to you?”

Combeferre sits up and looks at Grantaire. He looks absolutely miserable, burned out and tired and hopeless. He casts a glance around the room, leans in close to Grantaire and whispers, “He kissed me.”

Grantaire chokes on his own spit. “ _What_?” What is it with romance lately? Everyone’s gone completely off their rockers.

Combeferre nods, looking if possible more miserable than he did five seconds ago. “I know. And it was…good. But I pulled away and he ran away and I’ve barely talked to him since. He was staying _in my house_ over break, and I still hardly saw him! He said he realized some old high school friend was at uni in the next town over and spent the rest of the break there.”

“But…” his mind is still wrapping around the fact that Courfeyrac kissed Combeferre. And that Combeferre apparently…liked it? What about Enjolras? Had he been completely off base with that? “Didn’t you have to drive home together?” 

Combeferre nods. “It was the worst six hours of my life. He pretended to sleep the entire way and I listened to the same Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young album seventeen times. I think we said maybe three words to each other.”

Grantaire winces. “I didn’t…I didn’t think…”

Combeferre shakes his head. “I didn’t either. But Enjolras told me right before break…apparently he's been interested in me for awhile.  And I—I don’t know, I love him too and I don’t know why I didn’t—but I also—I— _fuck.”_

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says. “I mean. You don’t have to explain to me. And you don’t have to feel, like, _obligated_ to feel the way he does, you know?” God, he’s so bad at this sort of thing.

Combeferre shakes his head again. “But I _do_ , is the thing. I just also…” He trails off and his eyes dart to the side. Grantaire follows his gaze and sees it land on Enjolras. And yep, with that one glance Grantaire can tell that Combeferre is still really, really fucked. 

He gathers up the papers Combeferre gave him and shoves them in his pocket before standing up and pulling on his coat. “Come on,” he says. “You need a drink.” 

Combeferre’s eyes widen almost comically. “I can’t leave yet! We’ve got more stuff to do tonight—and besides, you can’t—“

“I’m perfectly capable of buying you a drink without buying myself one,” Grantaire interrupts smoothly. “Come on, man, you need to get out of here and you need a drink and then you need to go to bed, for the love of god. Get up. We’re leaving.” 

It’s a testament to how tired Combeferre must be that he responds to Grantaire, standing up and moving to grab his coat and bag. He pauses to say something to Enjolras, who looks between them with narrowed, suspicious eyes, and then returns to Grantaire’s side, gesturing wearily towards the door. “Lead on,” he says. Grantaire half-turns back towards the room as he leads Combeferre out the door and sees both Enjolras and Courfeyrac staring at them. Enjolras still looks suspicious, but Courfeyrac looks almost pained. Hurt.

Grantaire takes him to one of his favorite pubs, one where Feuilly works. Feuilly isn’t working tonight, of course, he’s at the meeting, but Floréal is, and Floréal is one of Grantaire’s favorite people. She gives him a giant hug when they walk in and tries to give him a free beer, but he refuses. “I’m off it,” he says, smiling slightly, and she hugs him again, even tighter. He’s spent an embarrassing number of drunken nights at this pub; she’s probably glad tonight won’t be one of them. “My friend will take it, though, if you’re offering.” She grins at him and pushes a pint towards Combeferre.

He succeeds in getting Combeferre slightly tipsy, and feels satisfied as he sees the creased lines etched into his forehead relax slightly. Combeferre doesn’t talk about Enjolras or Courfeyrac, but he does talk about the rally planning, which leads to indirectly talking about Enjolras and Courfeyrac. They’re “amazing” and Combeferre “can’t believe how much they’ve done” and is “so, so impressed” by Enjolras’ speech writing skills and is “so, so grateful” to Courfeyrac for talking to the police, the city council, the organizers of the conference to make sure everything is organized and legal, getting permits and permission and speakers. “All the background work he does,” Combeferre says, shaking his head slightly over his third beer. “I can’t believe it, like _nothing_ would work without him. But he doesn’t get as much credit from everyone as he should because it’s all behind the scenes stuff, you know?” 

The adoration in his voice when he talks about them—Grantaire has to admit, he’s not envious of Combeferre’s current predicament. Half in love with two perfect people. He thinks they ought to follow Eponine, Cosette and Marius’ model and just go for it. He refrains from suggesting it.

He stops Combeferre at three beers, pays Florêal and gives her another hug, promising to text her and meet up sometime in the near future, and walks Combeferre home.

“I should go back to the Corinth,” Combeferre mutters when he realizes which direction Grantaire is leading him. “They’re all still there, I’m sure. I should help.”

“You should sleep,” Grantaire counters. “I’m going to force you to sleep. I’d do the same to Enjolras, if I thought he’d listen to me.”

“He might,” Combeferre mutters, staring at the ground.

“He wouldn’t.” Grantaire says firmly. Just because they can be civil to one another and Enjolras isn’t being a giant asshole to him doesn’t mean he has any more respect for anything Grantaire has to say.

They get back to Combeferre’s apartment building and he stumbles up the stairs, finally exhausted. Grantaire hovers behind him, half worried he’s going to fall and ready to catch him if he does. Not out of drunkenness though—Combeferre seems almost unaffected by the alcohol after their short walk, and a terrible part of Grantaire wants to challenge him to a drinking contest someday to see who comes out on top. Good thing Combeferre would never allow it.

He doesn’t expect Coufeyrac to be standing in the kitchen in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs making a cup of tea when they finally stumble through the door.

He makes eye contact with Grantaire, briefly, then locks eyes with Combeferre and blushes from his face to his chest. Grantaire can tell by the flush on the back of Combeferre’s neck that he’s blushing as well. It’s excruciatingly awkward.

Combeferre finally speaks, after a long silence in which the only sound is a ripping noise as a small kitten vigorously attacks the leg of the couch in the living room.

“Are you still working on stuff? I can help, if you need anything.”

If possible, Courfeyrac blushes even deeper, dark skin coloring to a shade near magenta. He shakes his head. “No. No, Enjolras is still at the Corinth, working with Jehan and Feuilly. I just came home cause I have a paper to write for tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says. Grantaire can hear his voice tinted with disappointment. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Coufeyrac replies, then lifts up his mug of tea. “’Night, you two.” He practically runs down the hall to his room and the door closes with an unnecessary amount of force. When he’s gone, Combeferre drops his head into his hands.

“I can’t stand this,” he mumbles. “I can’t.”

Grantaire puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes him into the hallway. “Go to bed. You’ll feel better once you’ve slept, I promise. It will all seem better.” Since when has he been the one giving healthy living advice? He's acting like a fucking mom. He almost laughs at himself. He can’t believe Combeferre, sleep deprived though he is, is taking him seriously.

But Combeferre lets himself be pushed down the hall, lets Grantaire hand him a glass of water, lets his laptop be physically wrestled out of his hands and plugged in across the room. Grantaire even goes as far as to scoop up the kitten (still terrorizing the living room furniture) and dump it on Combeferre’s bed. Combeferre immediately softens as he rubs it under the chin. He even cracks a tired smile. Grantaire congratulates himself for a job well done.

“Go to sleep,” is the last thing he tells Combeferre before leaving.

“Thanks, Grantaire.” Combeferre smiles at him, too. “I appreciate it.”

Grantaire takes extra care to slam the apartment door when he leaves. He doesn’t want Courfeyrac to get the wrong idea and think he stayed the night.

* * *

 

For the next week, Grantaire stays busy. He alternates between working on commissions (he has four now. Four!) and on the posters for the rally. He’s pretty proud of some of the designs. Everything’s painted in strong black lettering, so the messaging is clear, but he’s gotten pretty creative with some of the backgrounds. He’s particularly proud of the oil well dripping blood. He shows Enjolras and Combeferre the finished products at the next week’s meeting and is surprised that even Enjolras reacts to them positively, though he does say that the oil well is “a little over the top”. It might just be that he feels guilty about last time and isn’t voicing his true feelings, but he’ll take it.

After the meeting, Enjolras pulls him aside before he can leave. “Are you coming?” he asks. “To the rally, I mean?”

“I…yeah, I mean, I thought I’d drop by.” The rally is on Friday the 31st, the same day as massive climate talks are going on at a convention center downtown. He doesn’t have to work that day, and he knows half his house would kill him if he didn’t show up for at least part of it. The other half would just be disappointed, which would honestly be worse than being killed.

The excitement on Enjolras’ face is surprising. “Good!” he says, flashing a smile that could probably send most people to their knees. Grantaire has literally never seen him smile before, other than some soft, quick quirk of the lips that lasted for less than a second. He should try doing it more often. “It’ll be so good to have you there, after all you’ve done to help.” 

Grantaire stares at him. “I haven’t done that much, really.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No. You really have.” 

Grantaire pauses for a moment. Enjolras looks at him questioningly.

“Why are you being nice to me suddenly? I mean, I get you’re sorry about the poster thing. I accept your apology, I really do. You don’t have to, like, keep making it up to me by pretending you like me.”

Enjolras looks hurt. “I do like you. I mean, I don’t know you very well, but I think I like you.”

Grantaire just shakes his head. He doesn’t understand this guy, he really doesn’t. “Okay,” he says. “Well, thanks I guess. I’ll be there on Friday. If you need any more posters before then, let me know.”

He turns to walk out the door. A hand grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“Really, Grantaire.” Enjolras’ eyes are ice blue and so, so serious. “You’ve been a huge help. I am sorry for what I said to you, still, and I’m sorry if you were under the impression I didn’t like you. I just…wasn’t sure about you. But you’ve really thrown yourself into helping us with this, and I appreciate it.” He smiles again, and Grantaire’s knees go weak. No wonder Combeferre’s in love with him; having his approval feels like you’ve gained the approval of all the gods in the pantheon. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

Grantaire just nods again, and steps out into the cold.

* * *

 

The morning of the rally dawns freezing cold and clear. Grantaire gets a frantic call from Combeferre at eight in the morning begging him for ten or twenty more posters if he can manage it by noon. “They don’t have to be, like, _good_ , Grantaire, they just need the messaging on them. Big! Thanks!” He hangs up before Grantaire can reply.

So his morning is off to a great start. He spray paints signs in the backyard for three hours drinking coffee out of a chipped bowl because all the mugs are dirty. He manages 25 before Jehan runs out yelling that they need them _now_ and if Grantaire wants to get to the rally on time he’d better get in a car _now_ and that people are gathering at the rally site _now_ and that they really want someone to wash some travel mugs _right now_ or else they’re not going to get their coffee and they might kill someone. Grantaire wasn’t really planning on going to the entire rally; he was sort of thinking about showing up sometime in the middle and slipping out before the end, but Jehan is a dangerous combination of stressed out, sleep deprived, and angry, so he picks up as many posters as he can carry and gets in the car.

The rally is outside of the convention center downtown in a square with several side streets leading into it. It’s the perfect spot for an action, easy to access and highly visible from the windows of the building and also conspicuous to anyone who happens to be in the area. They arrive, however, to a large makeshift fence erected a good fifty meters from the building entrance, and a raging Enjolras.

He’s wearing bright red skinny jeans. Grantaire wants to die. 

“They won’t let us get closer,” he seethes, pointing at the barrier. “After all that work Courf did to make sure we had the right permits, permission to be here, _everything_ , they did _this_.” He’s nearly spitting in his disgust. Grantaire is vaguely frightened.

“They said it’s for the safety of both us and the dignitaries inside,” Courfeyrac says, phone at his ear. “I’m worried it means they’ll let the people come and go from a different entrance, so they can avoid us entirely.”

Enjolras slams his fist against the fence. The entire thing rattles ominously and a security guard on the other end of the square glares at them. There’s already a small group of protesters gathering with signs and banners. There’s no way the action can move somewhere else, not this late in the game, and it doesn’t seem likely the security guards lining the barrier will be taking it down anytime soon.

“We’re still visible from the building,” Grantaire points out. “And there’s no way they can completely avoid us when they’re coming in and out. They’ll hear it, at the very least. This might be better, in the end. If we’re separated from the people at the convention police and security guards will have less of an excuse to start arresting people if we bother anyone.”

Enjolras glares at him. “The entire _point_ is to bother them,” he growls.

Combeferre places a soothing hand on his shoulder. “No, remember we agreed on this? We want this to be peaceful and contained and as respectful as possible so they see us as a legitimate voice rather than unruly university students looking to protest anything and everything. Grantaire’s right, this might help us keep everyone on the level we want them to be on; make sure nothing gets too out of hand. It’ll be fine.”

Enjolras glares, but stops arguing. They set up a podium and start handing out extra signs to a growing number of people. Someone shoves a camera in Grantaire’s hands and asks him to take pictures. He’s never taken pictures at something like this before, and he’s not entirely sure how the camera works, but he starts snapping away. More and more people pour into the square the closer to noon it gets, until the side streets are filling with onlookers and people are crowded against the fence.

“This is a way higher turnout than we expected,” Jehan says, standing on tiptoes with wide eyes to look at the crowd. “Wow.”

Grantaire sees Combeferre surveying the crowd and looking worried, chewing on his lip. “What’s the matter?” he asks Jehan, gesturing towards Combeferre. “Isn’t this good? The more the better, right?”

Jehan nods slowly. “Yes, but the number of people could make it more difficult to control the crowd. We want this to stay peaceful and contained, and we’re making everyone who comes in agree to a few ground rules before they join in—you know, stay respectful, no violence, don’t talk to police, all that. But it’s hard to get this many people on board, you know? Hard to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

Grantaire stands on his tiptoes to take a picture of the crowd stretching across the square and into the streets. “Makes for a good picture,” he says. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Jehan nods definitively. “I’m sure it will, too.”

Cosette rushes up and takes the camera out of Grantaire’s hands, shoving a sign at him to replace it. “Marius finally got here, he’s the official photographer. He got stuck in traffic! Says the backup is impossible because of this!” she squeals slightly and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Isn’t that _exciting_? Anyway, the speeches are about to start and the talks should break at one for lunch hour, so hopefully the people in there will see the people out here. I’m gonna go find Ep, Combeferre’s up first!” She gives one last bounce, then runs off.

Jehan takes a deep breath, turning towards the podium.

“Here we go,” they say.

“Here we go,” Grantaire agrees, and lifts his sign high.

Combeferre speaks eloquently and quietly on compassion, the importance of a just world for the present and the future. He says this is a movement about change, but moreover a movement about people. He says environmental justice is social justice. Grantaire, appallingly, is blinking back tears by the end of it. The crowd roars.

And then Enjolras ascends the podium and he is pure energy, righteous indignation crying out for equality, for justice, for what is right. The crowd hangs on to his every word, and Grantaire can feel their excitement and energy building. The whole square, the streets leading off of it, the people lining the rooftops—they’re all vibrating with the energy. Enjolras is a viciously beautiful figure of gold and red, eyes blazing as he speaks. And through every word runs a current of honesty, of truth. Enjolras really believes in this. He’s angry and sad at the world as it is, but he is so, so hopeful. It almost makes Grantaire hopeful too. 

By the end of it his heart is pounding and he cheers alongside the rest of the crowd. Jehan bounces on their toes next to him; Cosette has returned and has her arms around Eponine. The crowd thrums.

On the other side of the gate a group of people appear. Right on time. Grantaire doesn’t know who they are exactly, but they’re wearing suits and they look white and important, flanked by bodyguards and walking quickly. They could be politicians, they could be the CEO’s of oil companies, they could be anyone, but he can tell by the sudden swell of the crowd against the bars of the fence, by the increase in noise level, that they're important.

The crowd seethes forward, chanting and singing. He chances a look backwards and sees nothing but people and waving signs and banners. Next to their mass of humanity, the men in suits look small and insignificant. He cheers and lifts his own sign.

And then he sees it. He can’t tell where it comes from—it arcs into his line of sight from somewhere behind him and begins its long, elegant fall over the fence and towards the men in suits.

Enjolras doesn’t see it, he’s too busy leading a chant, but Grantaire glances at Combeferre and sees immediately that he has noticed. He stands stock-still, hands clutching his end of a banner so hard the fabric is bunched in his fist, frozen with a look of horror on his face. Grantaire can see his mouth move as he says “No,” but no one can hear him. No one else has noticed. 

The rock falls. It strikes one of the men on the side of his head. He stumbles back. Someone screams. Grantaire strains to see if the man falls, but he seems to regain his footing. That’s the last thing Grantaire sees at all before all hell breaks loose.

* * *

 

 _It was going so well_. After all their fear, their worry, their planning, their sleepless nights, the rally was going off without a hitch. Unprecedented turnout. Unprecedented energy. Positive responses to the speeches and demands. Participants angry and energetic but respectful. He’d delivered a strong speech, and felt good about it despite spending the entire time looking for Courfeyrac in the crowd and not finding him. And Enjolras, of course, was extraordinary. He practically fell in love with him again as he watched him.

And then he saw the rock. Actually, he’d turned back and caught a glimpse of Grantaire’s horrified face, staring up at something in the sky. The moment he saw it, saw how smoothly it arced over the fence and down towards the small group of men hurrying away from the convention center, he knew it was over. He was already running through scenarios in his mind, before the rock even made contact. _What to do, what to do, how to keep everyone safe. Safe, keep everyone safe._

And then the rock hit the man—the CEO of BP for the love of god, how much worse could it get—and he lost track of everything and everyone other than chaos. 

Some people in the crowd started screaming, trying to move away from the front and the fence while others pushed forward, anger on their faces, fists in the air. Some fists held more rocks. Some held worse—canisters of tear gas, slingshots, he even catches a terrified glimpse of what he thinks might be a gun. _No weapons_ , they’d pushed, demanded of everyone. _This is a peaceful protest. This is a peaceful protest_. They’d started out the day checking people, but the volume of attendees had so overwhelmed them, it had become impossible. And besides—the rocks on the ground didn’t need to be carried in. They weren’t even weapons, until someone decided they were.

He pushes away from the fence, trying to herd people back and away. He can hear police sirens and someone shouting in a megaphone. He catches a glimpse of a group of policemen tackling a few rock throwers to the ground. The protestors fight them.

 _Don’t interact with policemen. Ask if you are detained. If you are, do not resist arrest_.

More rocks arc over the fence. Security guards are running every which way, the people in fancy suits scattering back towards the building, away from the fence and the protestors.

He starts yelling. “Get back! Get away, don’t go near the police!” One man sneers at him, brandishing a rock. “You’re afraid to fight? After all that you say, you’re scared to actually do something?”

“This isn’t how change happens!” He cries desperately. “Violence never leads to change, it only leads to more injustice! We are a nonviolent group!”

“ _You_ might be,” the man yells at him, and throws the rock, muscling past Combeferre and nearly pushing him to the ground. Someone grabs his elbow to steady him. He turns and finds himself face-to-face with Courfeyrac.

He hasn’t been this close to him since the night on the beach. Courfeyrac is unshaven and tired and has a bruise on his temple and a thin line of blood tracing down his cheek and jaw. He's beautiful and Combeferre's heart clenches with how much he's missed him.  He half lifts his hand to wipe the blood off his face, but Courfeyrac is already pulling him insistently away.

“The police are coming, they’re here and they’re blocking off the streets. We need to get out of here before we get trapped.”

“But—“ he’s still clutching the banner, muddy and wrinkled now. He drops it to the ground. “We have to stop—“

“No,” Courfeyrac says, “It’s out of our hands. Too many people, they’re going to make their own choices. You’ve done what you can.”

When he still hesitates, Courfeyrac turns and shakes him slightly. “Combeferre. You _can’t_ get arrested. You _have_ to get out of here. We all need to get out of here.”

He’s right. Both Combeferre and Enjolras got arrested at their last action for refusing to leave a government building after closing time. They both have a year probationary period, and the last action was in May. If he gets tangled up with police today, he’s absolutely fucked. He finally lets Courfeyrac pull him.

The square is a mess, a confused jumble of terrified and angry people at odds with one another, pushing shoving, moving nowhere. Rocks rain down everywhere now, protesters hitting other protestors. A plume of tear gas rises from near the fence, whether from police or a protestor, he doesn’t know. Courfeyrac stops moving, mouth pulled tight as he scans the crowd, holding Combeferre’s hand fiercely as though he’s afraid he’ll pull away and become another friend lost in the crowd. “Do you see anyone?” he shouts over the screams and yells. Combeferre just shakes his head. He can’t tell who anyone is, the noise and the people are too much.

Eventually, they literally run into Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet, the former supporting the latter as he limps through the crowd. “He twisted his damn ankle,” Musichetta says, nodding at a sheepish-looking Bossuet. “We need to get out of here.”

Courfeyrac stands on his tiptoes, scanning the crowd. “I don’t think they’ve blocked off over there yet,” he says, pointing at the nearest exit street, which is more of an alley, too thin for a car to fit through. “Let’s head that way.”

Combeferre glimpses Bahorel at last, distinctive only by his impressive height and the characteristic swinging of his long dreadlocks. He sees him just as Bahorel pulls a young, sobbing teenager away from the grip of a police officer and is subsequently tackled to the ground by two others. At the same time, he sees Feuilly’s red head rocketing through the crowd towards Bahorel and knows, just _knows_ , that things are about to go pear-shaped over there. He cries out and tears his hand out of Courfeyrac’s, trying to run that way, but he’s bodily stopped by both Courfeyrac’s and Joly’s arms around his middle. _“No_ ,” Courfeyrac growls. “ _Stay here_. Get _out_ of here, do you hear me Combeferre?” His eyes are blazing. Combeferre’s never seen him look so angry. Or so scared.

Joly clasps his elbow. “Come with us, ‘Ferre, we’re almost there.”

Courfeyrac is turning away, moving towards Bahorel and Feuilly. For some reason, the only thing Combeferre can see is the trickle of blood down his face. He so badly wants to wipe it away, it doesn’t belong there, and Courfeyrac is leaving and he’s going to get more bruises and god knows what else…

“Courfeyrac,” he gasps, reaching after him. He can feel his lungs constricting his breath, his heart rate picking up. _Not here. Not now. Please_. Courfeyrac turns back to him. “I’ll be fine, Combeferre, you _can’t get caught here_. Leave!” He turns and makes eye contact with Joly. “Enjolras can’t, either. If you see him, get him the _fuck_ out of here, okay?”

Joly nods, and Courfeyrac disappears into the crowd.  Combeferre lets himself be pulled away.

The alleyway is just as chaotic as the square, if not more, people running in every direction, some laughing, some crying. All he can hear are the whine of police sirens from every direction, no way to tell if one is coming their way, coming for them. Musichetta rests Bossuet against a building and pulls out her phone. “Answer, dammit,” she mutters, punching at the screen. “We need a car. We need a fucking car here.”

Joly runs back to the alley entrance, staring out at the crowd. Combeferre joins him.

“You should leave, ‘Ferre,” Joly says. “You can get out of the alley, maybe even find a car for us to get Bossuet out of here. But Courf’s right, you can’t be here if the police come.”

His stomach twists at the thought of Courfeyrac. “I can’t leave. I have to help. I’ll get out if the police come.”

Joly shakes his head, but doesn’t argue the way Courfeyrac or Enjolras would.

“I see them,” Joly says suddenly, stepping forward.

“See who?”

“Enjolras. Enjolras and Grantaire.”

“Where?” he demands. Joly points. They’re by a fountain, near the center of the square. Enjolras is trying to help someone up and trying to talk to someone else, someone holding a can of what looks like bear spray, at the same time. Grantaire stands behind him, warily, hands up as though prepared to defend himself. 

Enjolras’ attention is focused on the person he is helping. He doesn’t notice the man with the rock running up behind him, fury written on his face. Grantaire does, however, and Combeferre can see his panic he lunges forward, pushing Enjolras out of the way as the man throws, and catching the rock meant for Enjolras on his own forehead. He stumbles backwards, and Enjolras falls into a crouch as he tries to catch him. The man with the bear spray drops it and lunges forward, to help or hinder he doesn’t know, but at the same time a group of police officers burst through a knot of protestors right next to them. They tackle the bear spray man and move towards Enjolras and Grantaire. Some of them carry guns. One of them fires.

Joly screams, but Combeferre is already running. Logic tells him that the bullets can’t be real, not in this sort of situation. They must be rubber, but rubber bullets can cause a lot of damage on their own (as Combeferre has learned through personal experience), and three of them have just hit Grantaire in the chest. He hears Joly shouting behind him, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t care—he can’t leave Enjolras and Grantaire alone as he stands on the sidelines watching. 

Thankfully, the officers get distracted by the protestors on the other side of the fountain, where another tear gas canister has been set off, and leave Enjolras and Grantaire after cuffing the bear spray man and dragging him off. Tear gas is thick in the air as he approaches them and he pulls up his t-shirt to cover his mouth, thankful for the meager protection his glasses offer him.

Enjolras is half-crouching half-standing as he approaches, trying to support Grantaire and also move them away from the tear gas. “Oh my god, Combeferre,” he says when Combeferre stumbles up next to them. “Oh my god.” He looks shell-shocked, eyes and hair wild, the knees of his pants ripped and stained with blood. Combeferre takes some of Grantaire’s dead weight and helps Enjolras drag him away. The fact that he’s unresponsive—or unconscious—is not good at all, but it’s also not something Combeferre can think about until they’re out of the danger zone. “Oh my god,” Enjolras repeats, coughing violently. “Oh my god.”

“Put your shirt over your mouth,” Combeferre chokes out. “And run faster!”

Joly stumbles up next to them, Musichetta’s bandana tied around his nose and mouth. He takes Grantaire from Enjolras and shoves him bodily towards the alley. “Run, Enjolras!” He shouts. “Get to the alley! And try not to breathe! We’ve got him.”

Enjolras stares for a second, panic evident in his eyes, then stumbles away.

They drag Grantaire towards the alley, progress tortuously slow. Combeferre nearly runs into a police officer, but the man takes one look at them and turns away, letting them go. Combeferre spends the rest of the time until they finally get to the alleyway thanking every god he can think of for that.

When they finally make it out, Enjolras is curled against the side of the building, hands over his streaming eyes, still coughing. Musichetta crouches next to him with a near-empty bottle of water. She looks up when the stumble to a stop. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “What happened to R?”

“Got hit with a rock, and then rubber bullets,” Enjolras chokes out from the ground. “My fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” Musichetta snaps. She shoves the bottle of water into his hands. “Drink this.” She turns back to Combeferre. “I got a hold of Cosette. She’ll be at the end of the alley with her car in five minutes. This goes out on Maison, so it shouldn’t be too congested. I can get Bossuet if you guys can get Grantaire.” 

“Hospital,” Enjolras says. He tries to get up, but stumbles against the wall. “Need to take him to a hospital.” 

“We will,” says Musichetta soothingly, turning to Bossuet.

“I’ve got R,” Joly says, swinging him smoothly up into a fireman’s carry. Its vaguely surprising that it works, given how short Joly is and how tall Grantaire is, but he starts running down the alley without any apparent problem. Musichetta follows. Combeferre moves toward Enjolras and pulls him up, supporting him with an arm around the shoulders. Enjolras leans against him, still coughing, and starts to stumble down the alley.

“Can’t get arrested,” he says breathlessly. “Either of us.”

“I know,” Combeferre replies. “We probably should have thought of that before we planned this out.”

His face crumples. “Didn’t think—didn’t think this would happen. Shouldn’t have.”

“I know,” Combeferre sighs. His stomach is in knots and his heart is still beating fast enough to make him feel sick. Courfeyrac is back there still, and Feuilly and Bahorel. Cosette is out, but what about Marius and Eponine? What about Jehan? 

“They’ll be fine,” Enjolras pants, as though reading his thoughts. “We’ll all be fine.” Funny that Enjolras, bruised, bleeding and rendered nearly unable to breathe by pepper spray, is still the one talking him down from a panic attack. He would have been so utterly useless as a doctor.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Cosette’s baby-blue car parked at the end of the alleyway, and a bigger one when he sees Marius next to her in the front seat. They both look pale, but unhurt. The car isn’t nearly big enough to fit all of them, but they pile in anyway.

Cosette is talking a mile a minute. “Holy shit. Holy shit, what happened? God, Grantaire! Is he okay? What happened? I lost track of everyone right away, it’s only luck I ran into Marius while I was running. Who threw that rock? Where’s everyone else? Do I go home, or the hospital?

He can’t answer any of her questions, other than the last. “Hospital,” he croaks, finally realizing how wrecked his own voice is from the pepper spray. “Grantaire needs a hospital.” He turns his attention to Grantaire, slumped between Joly and the window, face pale and eyes closed. After a few soft slaps on the cheek and repeated insistent calling of his name, he surfaces slightly, groaning. His eyelids flutter. 

“Grantaire,” says Joly, the real doctor here. “Grantaire, can you hear me?”

Grantaire only groans again, head lolling against the window. Enjolras fists his hand tightly in the back of Combeferre’s shirt. He can feel him shaking. Cosette swears in the front seat as the hit a red light.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Joly says, firm and insistent. “I know you’re awake, and I know it hurts but you _must_ answer me. Do you hear me?”

A slight nod and a near silent whimper.

“Okay. Good. Good. Can you tell me what hurts?” This question strikes Combeferre as slightly obvious, given Grantaire is bleeding profusely from an ugly welt on the side of his head. Grantaire confirms this as he whispers, ever so softly, “Head. And my side.”

“Right,” Joly says. “We’re taking you to a hospital. We’ll get you checked out there. Try to stay awake till then. Keep talking to me.”

Grantaire curls tighter into himself. Combeferre reaches over and grips his hand, squeezing it hard. Grantaire squeezes back, surprisingly tightly. “’Ferre?” he asks, squinting his eyes.

“Yeah. It’s me. You’re okay.”

Grantaire sighs and shuts his eyes again. “Where’s Enjolras?”

Combeferre hears a slight intake of breath behind him and Enjolras’ fist squeezes tighter, bunching the fabric of his shirt until it’s pulled uncomfortably tight across his chest. When it’s clear he isn’t planning on answering Grantaire, Combeferre answers for him.

“He’s here. He’s fine, Grantaire.” He doesn’t go farther, though he wants to. He wants to ask, _why would you push him away?_ He wants to ask _why would you take a rock in the head for a guy you don’t like, who doesn’t like you?_ He wants to ask, _did something happen between you two?_ But he stays silent, holding his hand for the rest of the ride to the hospital. Joly tries to keep him talking, but he becomes increasingly incoherent and the entire car breathes a sigh of relief when at last they pull up at the hospital’s entrance. It’s the same one he brought Enjolras to back in October. The unease of déjà vu rolls in his stomach.

Joly and Musichetta do most of the talking in the hospital. Combeferre’s head is spinning too much to really pay attention to what’s happening, other than an increase in the fever pitch of anxiety as they take Grantaire away on a gurney. Musichetta touches his arm. “Combeferre. Hey, Combeferre, he’ll be fine, okay? Probably just a concussion, some bruised ribs. Nothing to worry about.”

Everything to worry about. She doesn’t understand how much can go wrong with something that sounds as simple as a concussion.

Enjolras moves over to a chair in the waiting room and sits down, petulant frown on his face. “I’m staying here until we hear how he is.”

Musichetta looks between Enjolras, who’s still coughing every once and awhile, and Combeferre, who probably looks every bit as on the verge of a panic attack as he is. She sits down next to Enjolras. “I’ll stay, too,” she says. “Come on, Combeferre, sit down before you fall down.”

Joly nods. “We’ll head back to the house and wait to see if we hear from anyone else. Keep us in the loop, okay?” Musichetta nods.

Combeferre sits down next to Enjolras and buries his head in his hands. His temples are aching, his mind is still buzzing, and he’s hovering right on the edge of a panic attack. Enjolras’ hand creeps over after a short time and squeezes his, which to be honest isn’t really going to help him feel any less like panicking, but he does squeeze back.

“Did you see Courf, or anyone else?” Enjolras asks quietly.

He has to concentrate hard on not bursting into tears. “I was with Courfeyrac at the beginning,” he says. “He was the one who pulled me away from the fence and tried to get me out of there. He ran off though, went to help Bahorel, who, last I saw, was getting arrested.”

“Fuck,” Enjolras breathes. “Nothing since then?”

“No,” he says miserably.

Musichetta puts a consoling hand on his knee. “They’ll be fine. He’ll call us when he can.”

“But what if—“ panic swells in his throat and cuts him off.

Musichetta just shakes her head. “No, don’t worry. They _will_ be fine. If they’re all arrested, it’s okay, we have enough in the budget and from fundraising to cover any costs, you know that. That was something _you_ planned for.”

“I know,” he groans. “But it’s my fault…”

“How is it your fault?” Enjolras demands, sounding suddenly angry. “Did you plan on this falling apart the way it did?”

“Of course not, but I should have had a contingency plan for if something bad _did_ happen.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t have had a plan _we_ should have had a plan,” Enjolras retorts. “And why would we have? We thought we had everything under control. We couldn’t have possibly planned for a random person who decided to throw a rock.” 

“We said we’d take care of everything,” Combeferre says. “Courfeyrac and I. And we fucked up.” He can't help but feel like this is his fault. That this wouldn’t have happened if he and Courfeyrac hadn’t forced Enjolras to take a step back from rally planning none of this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Of course, it’s not as though Enjolras has a crystal ball and could have seen into the future, seen that rock falling, seen tear gas canisters and police overrunning the protest and magically had a plan.

But everything seems so much more in control in Enjolras’ hands. And who knows? Maybe he would have reminded them to come up with a backup plan if they’d let him come to more of their 2 AM planning sessions.

Although, how could anyone come up with a backup plan for what happened? What would something like that even look like?

Musichetta snorts. “Combeferre. Lovely, lovely Combeferre.” She forces his face out of his hands and turns it so she’s looking straight into his eyes. “You want so badly to keep everyone safe and happy, and you do such a good job, but there’s no way any of us, or all of us together, could have possibly planned for what happened. It’s okay.”

“She’s right,” says Enjolras. “Combeferre, please don’t blame yourself. _Please_.”

He looks earnest and sad and his puppy dog eyes are on full display.

“I’ll try,” Combeferre manages to choke out.

Enjolras keeps holding his hand and Musichetta keeps her hand on his knee.  Eventually, he manages to ask, "What happened to you?  How did you find Grantaire?"

Enjolras shakes his head.  "He found me.  Some guy was yelling at me about being wrong about direct action, and some other lady was telling me we're wrong about fossil fuels and climate change and I was basically trapped on every side and still trying to get people to stop throwing stuff and fighting.  And he just came out of nowhere, grabbed me, and pulled me away.  I was so overwhelmed I barely even acknowledged him, and then there was a girl collapsed by the fountain and I went over to help her and I was trying to talk some other guy out of using pepper spray on police officers...and..." he seems to suddenly have trouble talking.  "That guy, who threw the rock at us, he was the same guy who was yelling at me about being wrong and saying nonviolent actions never work.  And Grantaire pushed me out of the way."

His face crumples.  He's not crying, not quite, but he looks on the verge.  "Why would he do that, 'Ferre?  After...after what I said?  Why would he even try to find me?"

Combeferre doesn't know either, he doesn't understand, but he grips Enjolras' hand tighter.  "He cares.  He just cares a lot about us," he says.  He remembers Grantaire forcing him to sleep just a week ago, how kind and caring he'd been as Combeferre broke down in front of him.  "He's kind," he finally says.  "He wants to hide it, but he can't."

Enjolras shakes his head.  "I'm a shitty person.  And now I owe him everything."

"Yeah," Musichetta agrees.  "You kind of do.  You can make up for your shittiness by being nice to him forever now and always including him in everything we do, okay? And thanking him profusely once a day for the rest of your life."  Her tone is joking, but he can tell she's mostly serious.  Still, Enjolras seems to lighten a bit and even chuckles.  "Yeah.  I will."

A nurse walks out from swinging doors nearly an hour later, flipping through a chart. She stops in front of them.

“You all here for Grantaire LeClair?” she asks. Enjolras shoots to his feet, pulling Combeferre’s hand up with him. “Yes,” he says. “Is he okay?” 

She eyes them almost suspiciously. He figures they must look a bit of a fright, Enjolras with his dirty face and bloody knees, Musichetta in her torn dress. He probably looks terrible too. She finally seems to decide they’re trustworthy and sighs. 

“He’ll be okay,” she says finally. “He’s got a severe concussion, though.  The impact of the rock caused a skull fracture. Thankfully, it’s a simple linear fracture and should heal on it’s own. The bigger issue is some broken ribs—those rubber bullets were fired at close range, and three ribs on his right side were badly broken. One has caused some lung damage—his lung isn’t punctured, though, and since you brought him in so quickly we’ll get it taken care of before more damage occurs. But we will have to do a simple procedure to treat the ribs. Namely, we’ll insert some small titanium plates to stabilize the ribs and help them heal quickly and properly.”

Combeferre’s stomach twists unpleasantly. As calm and reassuring as the nurse is, this doesn’t sound very good. Enjolras is white as a sheet. “You mean…you mean he has to have surgery?” The grip on Combeferre’s hand increases exponentially.

The nurse nods, completely calm. “Yes. We don’t have any concerns though. He’s young and healthy and the procedure is very quick and simple. There’s a very low chance of anything going wrong. This happens daily here, broken ribs are generally not something to worry about, especially if the patient gets care as quickly as he will. We’re prepping him now and the procedure will be done in a little over an hour. After that, we’ll keep him for a few days to monitor him, mainly for the head injury, but he’ll be out of here by early next week.  The ribs should be healed in a month or so.”

“Can we see him?” Enjolras asks.

The nurse frowns. “I’m afraid none of you are family, and besides, our visiting hours will be over by the time he’s out of surgery.” She looks at them all with a slightly more sympathetic look. “I would suggest you all go home and get some rest. Come back in the morning. He’ll look much better after he gets through the night, and you’ll be able to see him then.”

“But…” Enjolras protests, then trails off. “I don’t want to leave him alone,” he finishes softly.

The nurse looks even more sympathetic now. Enjolras has this affect on people.

“Honey, he’s not alone,” she says. “He’s not even awake right now, and he won’t be coherent until tomorrow morning. You’ll all feel better and be more supportive to him if you get some rest and calm down a bit. He’ll be fine, and we’ll be sure to call his contact if anything happens.”

“Who’s his contact?” Combeferre acts, suddenly worried that Grantaire might have one of his old roommates or his parents as his emergency contact.

The nurse squints at her chart. “An…Eponine Thenardier?”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Ah. Okay. Good.” A sudden thought makes him jump up to stand next to Enjolras. “No! Actually, she might not be available tonight. Can you add me as an alternate contact?”

The nurse gives him another strange look. He must not look as trustworthy—or pathetic—as Enjolras. He tries to channel the puppy dog eyes, but he’s much better at the death glare.

“And why might she not be available, Mr…” she trails off.

“Hajjar,” he says. “Combeferre Garrous-Hajjar. Um. She’s…” he struggles between telling a less suspicious lie or just going with the truth. He decides on the truth because he might not have the brain power to come up with a lie. “Ah. Well she might have recently been arrested at a protest and could be in jail tonight.”

The nurse gives them another look. “Were you all at that protest downtown about the climate talks?”

All three of them nod sheepishly.

“Well,” she sighs. “That explains the rubber bullets. Listen, you lot, go home. Get some rest. Our visiting hours start at 7 AM tomorrow morning, feel free to come then and you’ll be able to see Mr. LeClair straightaway.”

Combeferre nods and tightens his grip on Enjolras’ hand, tugging slightly. “She’s right, Enjolras. Let’s go home, get cleaned up. We can’t do any good sitting here if they won’t let us see him.”

Enjolras looks suspiciously on the verge of tears. He’s glaring at the nurse, who just shakes her head slightly. “We’ll call you, Mr. Hajjar. What’s your number?”

Combeferre gives it to her and she walks away, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

Musichetta stands and puts her hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “They’re both right. Let’s give Cosette a call and get out of here. We’ll see who else has gotten in touch, we’ll see how things went down after we left the rally. We’ll get some _sleep_.” This she says while pointedly glaring at both Enjolras and Combeferre.

Enjolras, at last, nods wearily. Musichetta calls Cosette and she answers immediately.

“What’s happening?” Combeferre can hear her tinny voice on the other end of the line. “Is he okay?”

“He will be,” Musichetta says grimly. “We’ll fill you in on the way home. Can you come pick us up? Grantaire has to stay the night and we can’t see him until morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Combeferre hears, before her voice quiets into a series of indistinct mutterings.

“Shit,” Musichetta replies into the phone. Enjolras, already pale, turns paler still and sinks back into a chair. “Yeah, okay, see you soon.” She hangs up. “They haven’t heard anything from anyone else, but the news is saying the square has been cleared. Safe to say they’ve either been arrested or everyone’s lost their phone.” 

Enjolras puts his head in his hands. Combeferre’s headache returns at a fever pitch. Musichetta looks at them and holds up her hands placating. “Hey, hey. Remember what we said. It’s not a big deal. They’re all smart, they’ll call as soon as they can and _everything will be fine_. We _did_ plan for this happening, remember? And everyone who might have gotten arrested knows exactly how to deal with police.”

It’s hard to believe what she says, but Combeferre tries.

Cosette arrives in under five minutes and they all pile back into her car. Musichetta updates her quietly as Enjolras leans against the side window, staring out at the night with sightless eyes. Hard to believe this morning was only 11 hours ago. Hard to believe so much could happen in one day. 

Musichetta turns in her seat. “You two should come home with us. Would it be better to be together tonight, do you think?” 

 _Yes_ , Combeferre wants to say, because he dearly wants company and support. But the larger part of him screams _NO_ because he might still have a panic attack, only time will tell, and even if he doesn’t all he really wants to do is get home and fall into bed and maybe cry a little and his friends don’t deserve to see him like that. So he shakes his head.

“No, we’ve got to feed Geoff. And I think I’ll sleep better at home, to be honest. But my phone will be on—call me the second anything happens, okay?”

Musichetta nods slowly, and looks like she’s about to argue, but refrains.

Cosette pulls up in front of their apartment ten minutes later and Combeferre pulls Enjolras from the car, kisses both Cosette and Musichetta on the cheek, and stumbles up the stairs dragging Enjolras behind him. He fumbles with the key in the lock, nearly dropping it to the ground, but eventually manages to let them in. Enjolras has retreated into full catatonic mode, a state he enters after nearly every action or finals week in which he appears awake but doesn’t seem to be able to hear, speak, or respond in any way to anything. Completely unhelpful. 

The apartment is dark and cold—someone left the kitchen window open for some reason. Geoff meows piteously and trails Combeferre into the kitchen, twining around his feet and nearly tripping him. Enjolras sits on the couch, staring straight ahead and yawning every few minutes.

Combeferre feeds the cat. He closes the window. He changes out of his dirty clothes and puts on sweatpants and the flannel shirt. He contemplates eating, but decides he’s too nauseous. He pours two glasses of water, one for him, one for Enjolras. He grabs a blanket and sits down on the couch next to Enjolras.

“You wanna get changed?” he asks, handing him the glass of water. “Go to bed, maybe?”

Enjolras blinks at him. “I want to stay with you,” he says. Then he stands up and takes his pants off and grabs a sweatshirt lying over a chair. He’s in nothing but boxers and a sweatshirt. He sits down next to Combeferre and pulls a corner of the blanket to cover him, huddling close. 

Combeferre thinks he ought to be aroused. He is, in a distant and uncomfortable way. But mostly he’s tired and worried, so he lets Enjolras scoot up close and rest his head on his shoulder without overthinking it too much. His phone is balanced on his knee. He stares at the blank screen, willing it to ring.

“Thanks,” Enjolras whispers. “Thanks for everything you did today. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre replies. “About everything. It was going so well.”

“It went well,” Enjolras says. “It went wonderfully, and everything else was out of our control. Don’t be sorry.”

He buries his head deeper in Combeferre’s shoulder. His warmth worms its way into Combeferre’s cold skin and comforts him ever so slightly.

He keeps his eyes on the phone screen, but feels himself relax slightly. Enjolras is already limp against him.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and closes his eyes.

Though he’s almost too tired to think, he can’t fall asleep. He keeps his eyes closed, listening to Enjolras’ soft, steady breathing, and waits for his phone to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact the rally happenings are inspired by true events at a climate rally I helped organize last year. Slightly dramatized of course--we didn't have to deal with rubber bullets, thankfully. Moral of the story: don't throw rocks at a nonviolent action please.
> 
> I know in canon all of their names are actually their last names but I can't think of them like that no matter how hard I try so I'm just making their names their first names even if it sounds strange.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Give me any questions/concerns in the comments!


	8. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Transphobia, description of injury and violence, panic attack, Combeferre putting his foot in his mouth multiple times.

FEBRUARY

At one o’clock in the morning on February first, his phone finally rings. He jumps up from his slouched position on the couch, upsetting Enjolras, who stirs a bit and starts snoring, and tries to calm his breathing before he answers.

“Hi,” says Courfeyrac’s voice on the other end of the line, and Combeferre nearly melts in relief. “We’re in jail. You can come pick us up at 8 AM.”

“I can come pick you up _now_ ,” he counters.

“No,” says Courfeyrac tiredly. His voice is rough and quiet, like he’s been yelling, or crying. It makes Combeferre want to yell or cry.

“Why? Courf, please.”

“If you wait till 8 AM you won’t have to post bail. I’m not letting you post bail for five people, Combeferre.” 

“I want,” he whispers. Pauses. Licks his lips as he finds his mouth suddenly dry. “I want to see you. Now. I was... so worried.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac’s voice is just as soft. “But we’ll not be any worse for the wear in seven hours, okay? I’ll see you then.”

A voice murmurs on Courfeyrac’s end and he speaks again, louder. “I have to go. If you show up here before tomorrow morning I’ll kill you. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon,” he whispers back, but the line’s already dead.

He sighs and slumps back down onto the couch, picking up Enjolras’ head to settle himself beneath it again. He suddenly feels exhausted, every ounce of adrenaline that’s been flooding his body since he saw that rock fall abruptly gone. He wants to sleep for a week. 

He wants to go to the police station and hold every single one of his friends in his arms, run his hands over them to make sure their not hurt, and tuck them all into bed, bail be damned.

Especially Courfeyrac. 

But Courfeyrac is right. He can’t afford five people’s bail, so it’s going to have to wait till morning. The group’s budget could afford it, but that money would be better used for a real emergency, not just to save five members from spending a night in jail. At least he knows where they are now. 

He sets the alarm on his phone for 6:30 AM and is asleep in minutes.

His dreams are full of rocks falling and trailing fire, of bullets made of copper, not rubber, tearing into the flesh of his friends, his family, everyone. His dreams are full of Courfeyrac, staring at him out of a face so covered in blood and bruises there isn’t any skin left.

He wakes before 6:30 and can’t fall back asleep. He dislodges Enjolras, still dead to the world, and makes some coffee. He sits with Geoff at the kitchen table staring at the faint light from the streetlamp outside the window until he deems it reasonable to shower and get dressed.

He leaves the apartment at 7:30. The jail is only five minutes away, but he can’t sit still for any longer, so he sits outside of the building in the car, listening to the quiet drone of the morning news on the radio and watching rain bead up and slide down the car’s windows. At 8 AM sharp he gets out of the car and heads up to the doors. A weary-looking police officer greets him at the front desk, and rolls his eyes faintly when Combeferre tells him who he’s there for.

“They’re a righteous bunch,” he says, typing something into his computer and heaving himself out of his chair. “Too bad we had to keep ‘em in overnight.”

Combeferre refrains from telling him that they didn’t _have_ to do anything and that booking five people into jail for one night was more a waste of police department resources than it was a punishment for any of those booked.

“I’ll be right back,” the officer mutters.   “You can take a seat over there,” he waves his hand vaguely in the direction of a row of uncomfortable looking chairs lined up against the wall and heads down a hallway, presumably towards the holding cells. A younger police officer takes his place at the desk and smiles and Combeferre, offering him coffee. She seems perfectly nice, but at this point he feels morally opposed to talking to police officers so he refuses the coffee (politely) and pulls out his phone to text Cosette.

_At the jail_ , he says. _Will have them in a minute. I’ll bring them all over to you_. He figures most of them, minus perhaps Feuilly who will probably need to rush directly off to work, will appreciate all being together in the same place to recover a bit from yesterday’s events.

It takes longer than it should, nearly ten minutes before the police officer comes back, followed by a triumphant-looking Feuilly, sporting a black eye, and Bahorel, sporting two. Jehan drifts after them, limping slightly but looking otherwise unhurt, and smiles at Combeferre.

Five minutes pass and the three of them have to sign a lot of sheets of paper and Combeferre has to sign one too for some reason and they get slips of paper with reminders of court dates on them and still Eponine and Courfeyrac don’t appear and Combeferre begins to feel the flutters of panic in his stomach and wishes he’d sent someone else to get them but also—as horrible as he feels to say it—he knows he wouldn’t _trust_ anyone else to get them.

Eventually Eponine and Courfeyrac do emerge, following a different police officer from a different hallway. Combeferre feels a squirm of discomfort low in his stomach, though he can’t quite pinpoint why. Eponine looks fine, but angry as hell, and she gives him a short, quick hug before stomping up to the desk and glaring at the police officer as she signs her forms. Courfeyrac moves slightly slower. He looks exhausted, eyes shadowed by dark circles, face even more bloody and bruised than it had been when he left Combeferre at the rally. He carries himself like he’s hurting, though he’s not limping each step he takes and movement he makes looks carefully orchestrated and thought over in order to avoid pain. He avoids Combeferre’s gaze as he moves to the desk.

“The car’s out front,” he says numbly to Feuilly and Bahorel. They head out the door, followed by Jehan, who seems to be drifting even more than usual. Eponine storms out after them after she finishes signing her paperwork and nearly throws the pen at the police officer’s face. He’s left with Courfeyrac, who signs everything and answers questions with a subdued sort of exhaustion that seems foreign to his usually cheerful countenance.

The police officer squints at his signature as she slides him the reminder slip with the court dates. “Is this your legal name?” she asks him.

Courfeyrac stiffens noticeably. “Yes,” he says firmly, in a tone that invites no argument.

The police officer doesn’t catch on. “I’m sorry, but you really can’t sign with your nicknames or… _preferred_ names. It has to be the name on your birth certificate.”

“I legally changed my name three years ago,” Courfeyrac says icily. “This is the name on my I.D., my driver’s license, my passport, and all my student records. It isn’t the name on my birth certificate because I was born with a different one, but this is my legal name now. I’ve produced every proof of my identity you’ve requested, more than any of my friends have needed to show. What is the problem here?”

The police officer shakes her head. “Nothing, sir. Calm down. I understand this is your legal name, and that’s fine. But it does make it more difficult to confirm your identity. Do you still have the forms from when you changed your name? The paperwork?” 

“Yes.”

“Just bring those to the first court date and there won’t be any problems. It’s proof, you know, of your identity.”

Combeferre can audibly hear Courfeyrac’s teeth as they grind together. “I was told I wouldn’t need those papers. My documentation would be enough.”

“It’s just to make things go as smoothly as possible,” she says, then pushes his signed form into a folder brusquely. “That’s all. You’re free to go.”

Courfeyrac looks like he wants to say more; stiff and angry he opens his mouth, then closes it again and wheels away from the desk sharply, storming towards the door. Combeferre hurries to catch up. As they walk down the sidewalk through the rain—which seems to have increased in both intensity and overall wetness twofold since he went inside—he reaches out to touch Coufeyrac’s elbow.

“Are you okay?” he starts to ask, but Courfeyrac flinches away from his touch so violently he recoils himself and the words fall half formed from his lips. Courfeyrac draws his arm closer to his body, cradling it against his other arm. He still won’t meet Combeferre’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just a little beat up. Please, can we just go?”

He can’t say anything but yes.

The other four are already piled into Courfeyrac’s tiny car, Bahorel, Feuilly and Jehan crammed in the backseat and Eponine commandeering shotgun. Courfeyrac wordlessly holds his hand out for the keys, and Combeferre, though he doesn’t necessarily think it’s a good idea for Courfeyrac to be driving, hands them over. “Go to the house first,” he says quietly, “Cosette’s waiting.” Courfeyrac doesn’t reply, just nods once, and Combeferre squeezes into the backseat, straddling Bahorel and Jehan’s laps in an uncomfortable balancing act. 

Cosette barrels out the door the second they pull up to the house and drags Eponine out of the passenger seat, hugging her tightly and giving her a long kiss. Marius follows and hugs her just as tightly, and then everyone else is out of the car and the house and hugging in a tangled clump in the frozen front yard. The only one missing is Courfeyrac, who remains seated at the wheel of the car, staring out at the rain. As they trickle inside, Combeferre returns to the car and opens the driver’s door. He crouches down and ignores the rain dripping on him as he stares at Courfeyrac. 

“Come inside,” he says finally. “Just for a second. Then we can go home.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I’ll stay here till you’re ready.”

“They’re all worried about you,” he says. “They want to see you. They want to make sure you’re okay.”

Courfeyrac keeps his eyes and hands on the steering wheel. “Are _they_ all okay?” Combeferre sighs.

“Mostly. A bit beat up and freaked out. But Courfeyrac, Grantaire’s in the hospital.”

Courfeyrac jumps and finally meets his eyes. “ _What_? What happened?”

“He got hit by some rubber bullets. And in the head. He had to have surgery cause he fractured two ribs, nothing major and they said he’ll be completely fine, but everyone’s pretty freaked out about it.”

Courfeyrac hunches forward and leans his head against the steering wheel. “I can’t believe this happened. Oh my God, how could it have gone so wrong?” 

He places a hand ever so carefully on Courfeyrac’s leg. “It’s not your fault. None of us could have planned for that; none of us could have prevented it.” He’s parroting what Musichetta and Enjolras were telling him last night, even though he doesn’t fully believe it himself, but he’ll do anything to erase the lost look in Courfeyrac’s eyes. Courfeyrac just shakes his head against the steering wheel.

“We should have just left this all to Enjolras.”

He’d said the same thing the night before, but today he shakes his head. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

They sit in silence for a few more seconds and finally Combeferre tugs at his pant leg a bit. “Come on. Let’s go inside. Just for a minute.”

Courfeyrac yields to him at last and slides out of the car. Combeferre lets go of him immediately, skin tingling, wishing for the privilege of sliding his hand into Courfeyrac’s and squeezing.

“Did something happen at the police station last night?” he asks instead, right before they get to the front door, already knowing and dreading the answer.

Courfeyrac tenses and lowers his gaze again. “I’ll tell you later,” he says, and goes inside.

Everyone is hugging and talking at the same time and someone has already busted out the beer and Bahorel and Feuilly are loudly alternating telling the story of the fight and their tussle with police and being thrown in the back of a police van with a curious amount of pride and glee. Marius reaches out and pulls Courfeyrac in, crushing him in a hug, and Courfeyrac is enveloped by everyone else too, patting his back, kissing his cheeks, shoving a beer into his hands. Standing to the side, Combeferre sees him disappear in a pile of their friends.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he turns to face Eponine, who jerks her head towards the kitchen. He follows her, declining the beer Jehan shoves at him as he passes by.

Cosette had clearly been stress-baking all night, the counters are covered with pans and cooling racks full of cookies and banana bread and three large bowls full of rising bread dough. He wonders if she slept at all—from the look of all, probably not. Eponine picks up what looks like a raisin and carrot cookie and bites into it. She finishes it in three bites and picks up another—unidentifiable, though it has a decidedly green tinge to it—and starts in on it before she finally speaks.

“So they put him in the women’s holding cell,” she starts and Combeferre’s stomach drops through his legs and continues to fall right through the floor, landing somewhere in the basement. Probably on Jehan’s bed. He opens his mouth, but Eponine holds up a hand to stop him from speaking. “They decided there was a ‘disparity’ between his identification cards and wanted to go by birth name for their ‘records’ to be ‘accurate’, even though he’s completely—well, you know. Anyway, it was a bit weird when we walked in, kind of awkward to explain why there was a dude in the women’s cell. There were a few folks who weren’t too happy about it. And, given it was a room full of drunk people and tweakers, a few of them were especially not happy and decided they wanted to beat him up a bit and got a few good hits in before the rest of us managed to stop it. Anyway. He’s more hurt than he’s letting on and he won’t tell you the truth and he probably needs to go to a doctor or something.”

Combeferre can’t speak for a moment. When he finds his voice, he sputters, “he should sue!” despite knowing nothing about the law, or, really, transgender rights when dealing with getting arrested and having a different name than what’s on your birth certificate. Courfeyrac the law student _would_ know, but somehow Combeferre doubts he’s going to press charges even if he could. “Let it go” is Courfeyrac’s motto for life, and for dealing with anything bad that happens to him. It drives Combeferre nuts.

Eponine shrugs. “It fucking sucked,” she says in her usual blunt, angry way. “Anyway. He’ll be pissed I told you but I figured you’d have more luck convincing him to go to a doctor. Like…Combeferre, his _shoulder_ got dislocated. And he just slammed himself up against the wall after it was all over and said it popped back in and wouldn’t listen to anything else I said to him.”

“He _dislocated_ his _shoulder_?” Combeferre practically shouts, horrified. The number of things that can go wrong— _long term_ effects—when someone decides to re-locate their own dislocated shoulder are endless. He wants to run back out to the living room and slam Courfeyrac against the wall himself.

Eponine hands him a cookie, pumpkin chocolate chip, from the looks of it. “He’ll be fine, Combeferre. Just take him to the doctor on your way home and get it taken care of. And for god’s sake _don’t_ blame yourself, ‘Ferre. Okay?” She hands him another cookie. “Just…eat some cookies and get some coffee and get that look off your face before you take him home.” 

“Are _you_ okay?” he remembers to ask before she leaves the kitchen. She waves him off with her hand. “As okay as I can be. Pissed as hell. Lucky to be cis. Angry that that’s lucky. But ‘Ferre, we’ll _all_ be okay, alright? Don’t worry. This wasn’t the end of the world, or of our efforts. This just makes us stronger.”

Maybe that’s what he needed to hear all along, confirmation that this incident would not end them; that they would come back stronger keep fighting, even if it was harder to go forward. He feels the tensions in his shoulders and mind ease slightly.

He stays in the kitchen after she leaves and curbs his anger and frustration by punching each pile of risen bread dough into submission before covering them up to rise again. When he returns to the living room, he sees Courfeyrac grinning as he talks to Jehan, but he still looks exhausted and he still stands carefully, as though he’s afraid to jostle any part of his body.

 Combeferre goes to him and taps him on the non-dislocated shoulder, or what he guesses must be given how carefully Courfeyrac holds the other still against his body. “Do you want to go?” he asks, and Courfeyrac nods gratefully. Combeferre hijacks the car keys and driver’s seat before Courfeyrac can argue. It’s ten minutes into their drive when Courfeyrac finally realizes they’re going in the opposite direction of their apartment and says something.

“I’m taking you to the doctor,” he interrupts before Courfeyrac can get his full question out. “Eponine told me what happened.”

Courfeyrac’s neck flushes. “It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t need to go to the doctor.”

“Yes, you do,” he counters. “Do you know how many bad things can happen when you try to reset your own dislocated bones?”

“That shoulder’s been dislocated before. It’s fine, Combeferre, just a little sore.”

“It’s even more not fucking fine then!”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be a doctor anymore?” Courfeyrac’s tone drips with acid, and it shuts Combeferre up. Courfeyrac’s never sounded like that, not with him at least. He sounds positively venomous.

“Fuck off,” he says, acidic too.

“Wow,” says Courfeyrac, half condescending, half angry. “You must _really_ care if you’re actually swearing at me.”

“I _do_ actually care, funnily enough. You’re hurt elsewhere, too, I can tell.”

“All I need is some aspirin and some damn sleep, not you babying me.”

Combeferre’s stomach rolls at his tone and words, hurt lodging in his throat. He doesn’t want Courfeyrac to be angry with him; he doesn’t want to be at the end of or the cause of Courfeyrac’s frustration. He misses Courfeyrac with a sudden painful sharpness, nonsensical with the man sitting right next to him. He misses Courfeyrac before winter break, before the kiss, when things were normal and easy. “I’m just trying to help,” he says quietly. “And I’m helping you by taking you to the doctor so your shoulder doesn’t hurt you for the rest of your life.”

Courfeyrac turns away from him and doesn’t speak, staring out the window. The ache in his chest deepens.

He walks into the office with Courfeyrac, praying that the doctor will be able to see him immediately. Courfeyrac must have decided there was no point in hiding his hurts anymore because he limps up the steps and takes himself up to the desk to explain the situation. The receptionist, looking horrified at the state of his face, immediately ushers him away. Combeferre drops into a chair and picks up a two year old copy of _Paris Review_ , flipping through it listlessly. He's spent too much time in waiting rooms in the last 24 hours.  He can’t focus on the quiet poetry or tasteful photographs of naked people covered in flowers, though—in the absence of anyone sitting next to him and talking, the worries creep in. What was everyone going to do about paying the fines? Were they all really okay? Were they, too, suffering from injuries they were too proud or embarrassed to admit to? Was Jehan okay, or had they too been mistreated on the basis of their name and appearance? What about Grantaire? He hadn’t had the mind to think of Grantaire all morning. He pulls out his phone and dials Enjolras, assuming he would have gone to the hospital as soon as he woke up, but there’s no answer. He leaves a message, then texts both Enjolras and Grantaire, mind running wild with bad scenarios—Grantaire having complications, something going wrong in the night, waking up with amnesia, not waking up at all.

He could write soaps, honestly, for all the drama his mind tries to convince him of.

But he can’t ignore it, even though he knows it’s ridiculous. The litany of improbable scenarios building up, the thoughts, creeping and black, gripping his breath and his heartbeat, constricting. He tries to comfort himself with the improbabilities, the statistics, and yet his mind always turns to the 1%, the rarest cases, the terrible things that usually don’t but always _could_ happen. And then, suddenly, his breath is coming too quickly for him to keep up and the _Paris Review_ has dropped from his numb fingers and there’s no reason _no reason_ for him to be doing this, but there is, there is, because besides his own friends, who knows how many other people were hurt or detained? Who knows if anyone from the conference was? Was that man who first got hit by a rock okay? And what would the media do about this? Was the ABC and rally itself already being eviscerated for radicalism and violence? What will they do? Eponine said this wouldn’t stop them, but how could they move forward from this sort of thing? 

He’s hunched over, head on his knees, and he can’t hear his own breathing anymore and this is bad, _so bad_ ; he can’t be having a panic attack while he’s in public, in a doctor’s office, with the receptionist and two other people staring at him. But he is. He knows there’s not a reason for this, but still it comes. Everyone he knows and loves in trouble, the weight of hundreds of people he doesn’t know on his shoulders, and white noise in his ears.

Until a long-suffering sigh reaches his ears. A hand falls on his shoulder and squeezes, and he hears his name.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says. “Combeferre. I’m fine, okay? I’m alright. Let’s go, okay?” But he can’t leave, can’t even look up to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes, though he can feel the back of his neck flushing at Courfeyrac’s careful tone, and the eyes of everyone who’s staring at him. All he can think of is Courfeyrac’s shoulder and Grantaire’s ribs and Bahorel’s bruises and the bloody scrapes on Enjolras’ legs and, and, and. Somehow, it’s his fault. “You can always do something” his dad used to tell him and his brother when they were young, “you can always do something to make a situation better”. Except he hadn’t done anything, or at least hadn’t done enough.

“’Ferre,” says Courfeyrac, and his voice is so gentle, such a difference from the way he sounded in the car. And he hasn’t heard Courfeyrac call him ‘Ferre since before, before everything, before he screwed up so badly as to lose Courfeyrac’s friendship entirely, and the sound of that makes him want to cry. Courfeyrac’s hand slides to grip Combeferre’s wrist. “ _’Ferre_ ,” he says again, “come on. I can’t drive now, so I really do need your help.”

He chances a glance up at Courfeyrac, who now crouches in front of him, though that must be a painful position. His arm is in a sling and the bloody welt on his face is covered by a thick gauze pad. He feels a wetness staining his cheeks and realizes he _is_ crying, out of stress or relief or sadness, he doesn’t know. He wonders vaguely if this is some delayed physical reaction to yesterday, if he was too mentally and emotionally overloaded from stress and adrenaline that his body pushed aside the inevitable breakdown until he knew, at least, that everyone was safe.

Courfeyrac’s hand tightens around his wrist. “Oh, ‘Ferre. I’m sorry, I know you’re worried. You were right, I really did need a doctor. And you brought me here, and I’ll be okay, I will. Now all I really _do_ need is an aspirin and bed. This wasn’t your fault, you can’t blame yourself. Please, don’t.”

“He really will be,” chimes a female voice. He tilts his head up farther to see the receptionist. “I heard the doctor say it, just a few scrapes and bruises, a sprained ankle. Nothing to worry about.”

The secondhand confirmation soothes him slightly. He feels disgusted by it. He hates that he has to be reassured of what he already knows by everyone multiple times, hates how much of a useless burden he becomes, just another thing everyone else has to take care of. He hates that Courfeyrac, bruised and exhausted, coming out of a hellish night, is suddenly the one comforting _him_ when it should be the other way around.

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he says finally. “I should have been there with you. That shouldn’t have happened to you.” As though he could have stopped it, had he been there. As though his presence would have helped at all.

Courfeyrac squeezes even tighter. “It’s okay ‘Ferre. It happens. It sucks, but it happens, and I’m okay. Please, Combeferre, let’s go home.”

“Would you like some water?” the receptionist asks, holding out a flimsy paper cup. He takes it and mutters his thanks, embarrassed that she was witness to the entire episode.

His hands are still shaking by the time he finishes the water and he knows he’ll fall apart again the second he gets home, but he manages to stand and follow Courfeyrac out of the office and to the car, get behind the wheel, and drive them home. He follows Courfeyrac up the stairs and unlocks the door and finds himself standing in the kitchen, making coffee out of pure instinct, staring at the pale white sky and bare branches outside the window. The rain has stopped, leaving the world muted and wet, drops clinging to the tips of the branches. A robin flutters by, pecking at some crinkled orange berries, chest fluffed against the cold. Combeferre vaguely wonders how many hours he’s spent staring out this window in his entire life. The coffee pot he’s been filling with water overflows, soaking his sleeve.

Something about the robin, alone in the cold, hurts his chest. Moisture fills his eyes again and he puts the coffee pot down, wiping at them furiously.

Enjolras is absent from the front room, and his room is empty so Combeferre assumes he must be at the hospital. He still hasn’t returned his text or call, which is so very _Enjolras_ —forgetting or refusing to answer his phone at a time of such need for communication. He texts him again out of spite and waits leaning against the counter for the coffee to brew. His hands are still shaking, and the moisture just won’t leave his eyes.

The robin gives a chirp and flutters it’s wings. It takes off and disappears from his line of sight.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac calls from his room, “Can you…er…help me, maybe?”

He shoves off the counter and hurries to Courfeyrac’s room in an embarrassing hurry. Courfeyrac is stuck, shirt halfway over his head, arm still in the sling and stuck inside of it. “I didn’t think about the sling,” he says, voice muffled by fabric. “Help?” 

He steps forward and begins gently untangling Courfeyrac’s arm from the shirt. It’s the closest he’s been to him in weeks—they’ve been purposefully avoiding each other, neither home at the same time, one leaving a room if the other enters, dropped eye contact and speaking only of banal things—the rally, the dishes, who needs to buy milk next. It’s been excruciating. Combeferre had never realized that Courfeyrac has such a _scent_ to him. Sandalwood, the mint tea he drinks in the evening to make himself sleepy, a peculiar sunny scent that reminds Combeferre of grassy riverbanks in summer. He didn’t notice it until he stopped smelling it so suddenly. He’d catch whiffs of it every so often, at meetings, by the coffee maker in the early morning, drifting from Courfeyrac’s cracked bedroom door, and every time it had made his heart hurt.  Now, here, he is surrounded by it again and it settles into his nostrils like it belongs there, as familiar as the smell of old books, of coffee, of Enjolras’ preferred brand of chemical-free biodegradable laundry detergent.

He feels comforted, relieved, _right_.

He gets the shirt and sling off. Courfeyrac grabs a sweatshirt and he helps him put it on. He replaces the sling carefully, checking the tightness of the straps, making sure it holds Courfeyrac’s shoulder still enough. His nose is level with Courfeyrac’s hair. He’s done adjusting, the sling is as perfect as it could be, but he doesn’t want to stop touching him. He wants to feel him, warm and solid and real under his hands, proof.

He doesn’t realize he’s stopped fooling with the sling and is just standing there, hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, until Courfeyrac turns around to stare at him.

“Combeferre you’re shaking—“ Then his voice softens again, to something almost unbearably gentle. “Combeferre.” He reaches up and swipes at Combeferre’s cheek, smearing away the moisture that is escaping, no matter how hard he tries to hold it in. “Combeferre, don’t cry.” 

“I’m trying not to,” he says, but the words come out strangled and his chest is too full and tight to breathe and his sinking down, pulling Courfeyrac with him until he’s kneeling on the dirty carpet, full of cat hair and Courfeyrac hair and bits of kitty litter and his head is in his hands and he’s crying harder than his has in a long, long time. He tries to get up, to get away, to go to his own room where he can shut the door and let the panic take him and chew him up and spit him out exhausted, like he usually does; he cannot stand being around others when he is like this. But Courfeyrac catches him, first by the wrist and then by the middle, like he did yesterday at the rally, and pulls him back to him. His arm is around Combeferre and Combeferre’s head has ended up buried somewhere in Courfeyrac’s shoulder and he gives in and lets it take him and cries and cries, gasping for breath and gripping at Courfeyrac’s shirt, his shoulder, anything he can touch and hold like the solid thing it is. He can’t stand it, but something in his brain is comforted by the touch of another human, grounding him so he can’t float away into the static his mind has become. He thinks Courfeyrac is talking to him, he can feel the faint vibrations in his chest, but he can’t hear what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter. There’s a high keening noise coming from somewhere, and after a moment he realizes it’s coming from him. A thread of embarrassment—for himself, that Courfeyrac is seeing him like this—winds its way through the rest of his racing thoughts, but is lost almost as soon as it emerges.

Eventually, he exhausts himself. His panicked gasping slows into quiet sobs and the static in his ears fades to an echo. Dimly, he makes out what Courfeyrac is saying—his name, just his name, over and over again as he rubs wide circles on his back. He’s collapsed in Courfeyrac’s lap, face buried in a wet spot somewhere near Courfeyrac’s armpit. He’s held up by Courfeyrac’s arm around his back, cradling him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, hand twitching, clutching Courfeyrac tighter. “I’m so sorry, Courfeyrac, please believe me, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to do whatever I did, I was just surprised. Please, I can’t—I don’t want to—I miss you.” His words are still punctuated by sobs, quieter now and less heaving.

Courfeyrac’s arm tightens. “Are you talking about what happened back in December?” 

He groans. “I’m talking about everything. This. But mostly that. I—“ he hiccups. Loudly. His entire body jerks. “Ah—I just—then, I was just surprised, Courf. Nothing more.” 

Courfeyrac sighs and pets his hair a bit. “You need to calm down a bit more, Combeferre.”

“No I—“ he pulls away from Courfeyrac’s armpit and wipes at his face with his sleeve. He succeeds only in mixing snot and tears and spreading it further around his face. “Ugh. I’m calm enough, I just—I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep ignoring you and avoiding you and pretending nothing’s wrong in front of everyone when everything’s wrong.” He falls forward again, letting his head rest against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Can’t we just—“ he wants to find the bravery to say what the twisted knots in his stomach and the ache in his throat want him to say—that he doesn’t regret that kiss, that he could have lost himself in it for hours, that he’s dreamed about having Courfeyrac that close to him again dozens of nights since that night, that he loves him, because he does, he loves him so much it hurts. But he can’t. Because his brain, traitorous and torturous as it is, keeps going back to Enjolras, whispering _what about him, you’re supposed to love him, you’ve loved him for years_. Enjolras. Beautiful, wonderful, unattainable Enjolras who, he knows, will only ever be his best friend. And why would he want more than that?

But you can’t shut down a crush—an infatuation—just like that. Not even when it’s hopeless.

“Can’t we just say it didn’t happen? Start over new?”

He feels Courfeyrac tense at his words, and his voice when he speaks is measured and clear, hiding any hint of feeling. “Of course, Combeferre. We can forget it ever happened. It was my fault, I never should have thought that—well. It was my fault. I miss you too.”

It sounds rehearsed, like Courfeyrac had always expected to have to say those words and recited them to himself until they sounded perfect and untrue. Combeferre’s stomach clenches tighter and he pulls himself away again to look at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac avoids his gaze and Combeferre is torn between reaching towards him and moving away further. He ends up curling in a confused ball a few feet away, hurting and ashamed. He doesn’t know what to do. Or rather, he does, but he’s too much a coward to do it.

“Courf, please, I didn’t mean it that way, I want—“

“I’m tired, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac interrupts quietly, and he knows he’s being asked to leave.

He stands up, feeling ragged and tired. He’s already taken too much from Courfeyrac today, so he doesn’t argue. Courfeyrac stands too, then moves to sit on his bed. He avoids Combeferre’s gaze, and eventually Combeferre gives up and moves towards the door.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says before he leaves. “I—thank you. You helped.” 

“You’re welcome,” Courfeyrac replies quietly.

Combeferre moves into the hallway. Geoff is sitting there, peering curiously around the doorframe. Combeferre pats his head, then scoops him up and moves back into the room. He dumps the kitten into Courfeyrac’s lap, and Courfeyrac gives him a ghost of a smile as he scratches his head.

Then he does leave, closing the door behind him.

He feels loose and weak, the aftermath of the panic attack settling heavy on his bones. He should drink some coffee. He should try Enjolras again. He should check the news and see what it’s saying about the rally, see how many others were hurt or arrested, see if people are blaming the protestors or the ABC yet.

Instead, he stands listlessly in the kitchen with his arms around himself, staring blankly at the surface of the table, littered with papers and dirty coffee mugs. He’d fucked it up again, hurt Courfeyrac again, moved even farther from him after getting closer for a tantalizing minute. He grinds the heel of his palm into his forehead, glasses digging in to the tender skin around his eyes. How is he like this? How can he take so much from others and give nothing in return? How can he be so terrible for the people he loves?

He should do many things. He wants to go to sleep.

He backtracks and trails down the hall, past Courfeyrac’s bedroom. No sound or movement comes from behind the door. In his own room, he takes off his clothes mechanically and shrouds himself in his comforter. He is numb, unable to process anything of what just happened. Courfeyrac saw him have a panic attack. Courfeyrac comforted him. Courfeyrac helped. And then he hurt him more. He wants to go back to his room and fix it, erase it, change it. But he doesn’t know what he would say.

The rain has returned. He stares at the drops running down his windowpane until sleep claims him and erases everything else.

* * *

 

He wakes disoriented, recognizing he’s in a hospital only by his sense of smell and the feel of scratchy, industrial sheets against his palms. He can’t remember how he got here, but his head hurts in a strange, detached way and when he tries to shift, to sit up and look around, his side protests so painfully he falls back on the pillow, gasping. He had to have been drinking, for his head to hurt this badly. Drinking for several days, evidently. It seems to be night, no daylight seeps through the cracks in the plastic blinds over the window, but light seeps below the closed door of the room. As he wakes more fully, the sounds of a hospital at night come to him—the soft squeak of nurses’ shoes treading up and down the hallway, the distant beeps and communications of pagers and intercoms, the snores of the man in the bed across from his, someone talking softly to someone else as they pass by the door.

His head hurts a lot. More than it usually does for a hangover.

He usually doesn’t end up in the hospital for a hangover, either. He wonders, vaguely, if he almost died, if he almost ended it this time around. A small, shriveled part of himself feels a vague sense of disappointment that it didn’t work, the same feeling that pops into his head whenever he inevitably wakes up. 

Something tugs at the crook of his elbow, and he follows his arm down to land on the sinuous thread of an IV poking out of his arm. 

The detached, fuzzy feeling combined with the IV tells him that he probably ought to be in a lot more pain than he actually is. Despite his head, and the pain in his side when he moves to get more comfortable, he feels _good_ —really good, floating and absent, as though he’s a tourist to his own body where the pain is really only the _idea_ of pain, a suggestion, an abstraction. He’s felt like this before, a lot, more than he should. He’s on morphine, or something like it. He really should page the nurses or something, tell them _that_ really isn’t a good idea at all. But. But. He feels so good. So content. And he can’t for the life of him remember what happened, so he figures he deserves to fall asleep again without any pain.

And he does.

* * *

 

The second time he wakes up, he’s still in that fuzzy, foggy, pleasant state, but several things have changed. One: it’s daylight and the room is unpleasantly bright when he blinks his eyes open. Two: he remembers _exactly_ how he ended up here, all in one sudden burst of memory, and he feels an urgent sense of panic set in as he starts to wonder what happened to everyone else. And three: Enjolras is sitting next to his bed, curled in a tiny hospital chair, asleep. 

Well.

That’s very unexpected.

The sunlight from the window lights up the strands of Enjolras’ uncombed hair and creates a halo around him. He’s stunning and Grantaire’s hands, sore and uncooperative though they are, itch for his paintbrushes.

He debates between waking Enjolras and just watching him until he falls back asleep and hoping everything makes more sense when he wakes up again, but in the end he decides this is too weird to pass up, so he carefully reaches out the arm that isn’t plugged into an IV and pokes Enjolras in the knee.

He jerks awake with almost comic violence and looks around himself frantically before evidentially remembering where he is. His eyes land on Grantaire and widen.

“Oh my god, Grantaire, you’re awake!” He doesn’t expect the look of joy on Enjolras’ face.

He wants to say a lot of things—namely, _why are you here_ and _is everyone else okay_ and _what exactly is wrong with me_ but the only thing he can force out is “I feel so, so good right now but I’m on morphine and you really need to tell them to take me off of it.”

A funny look crosses Enjolras’ face. "What?  Um…why?”

“Because my last experience with morphine was very very bad and lasted far longer than it should have and as much as I’d love to stay on it because I really do feel good I’m experimenting in this thing called self-preservation and this is me self-preserving.” Then, as Enjolras gapes at him, he adds “Why exactly are you here?” He knows it sounds callous, but he really is curious and his mind isn’t working smoothly enough to figure out a polite way to ask.

Enjolras blinks. “I was worried,” he says. “You protected me, and I was scared that you…you…you got really hurt, Grantaire.” 

He blinks up at him, not fully understanding. He knows he has friends now, people who care about him, people who would show up to the hospital to sit next to him. He’d expect to see Eponine or Feuilly, Combeferre, Bahorel, perhaps even Courfeyrac or Musichetta or Jehan. But Enjolras? Before he can open his mouth to ask more questions, Enjolras jumps out of his chair. “I’ll go find you a nurse, okay? Try to stay awake.”

Why would he not be able to stay awake, he wonders? It’s not as though he’s particularly tired. 

Except, he realizes, he is. The two-minute conversation has exhausted him completely, and left his head fuzzy and swimming. The headache pounding vaguely behind his temples has increased its frenzy and he suddenly wishes he’d kept his mouth shut about the painkillers, just for a few more days.

He vaguely registers Enjolras re-entering the room with a nurse, and noise at his side as someone fiddles with the IV stand, and then he’s gone again.

* * *

 

When he wakes up the next time, he’s suddenly very aware that he definitely got fucked up at the rally. His head is an explosion and his side throbs in time with his heartbeat. He groans and lifts a hand to his head in a weak effort to rub away the pain. A hand catches his wrist and gently restrains it. He groans again.

“Grantaire?”

“Fuck,” he answers, or, rather, moans. “Did I tell you to tell them to take me off painkillers?”

“Yes?” Enjolras answers, and Grantaire’s eyes fly open. He vaguely, fuzzily remembers Enjolras being here earlier. Which didn’t make sense then, and it still doesn’t make sense now even though he’s feeling decidedly less fuzzy. Enjolras’ eyebrows are drawn in uncertainty. It would be a funny expression on his usually assured face if Grantaire wasn’t so distracted by his body screaming at him.

“Why the _fuck_ did I do that for? _Fuck me_.”

Enjolras looks scandalized. Grantaire decides to ignore it in favor of closing his eyes again. 

“Okay,” he says.  "Okay. What the _fuck_ happened to me?” 

“You were with me at the rally and we got stuck in the middle of the riot,” Enjolras starts, and that brings a lot of the details rushing back. “You were trying to convince me to get out and leave, but I didn’t want to, I wanted to help people and make sure people got out themselves and didn’t get hurt or arrested. I kept telling you to go, but you wouldn’t. You stayed with me.”

“I remember,” he says. “You jackass, why didn’t you just get out of there?”

“As an organizer of the rally, I had a duty to the people there. I couldn’t just leave them all.” 

“You’re an idealistic prick,” he says. He vaguely recognizes that he’s being quite rude, but he figures he can write it off due to how much pain he’s in. “The people who started that weren’t your responsibility. The people who were there for the right reasons would have had the sense to get out.”

“Some of them were stuck in there and _couldn’t_ ,” Enjolras retorts, cheeks coloring. Blushing Enjolras. It’s a good look for him.

“You’re cute when you’re angry,” he says. He’ll blame that one on the pain, too. “I got hit on the head by a rock, didn’t I?”

He savors the look on Enjolras’ face, his slightly strangled tone when he answers, “Yes”. That line got rid of the aloof look pretty fast.

“Rubber bullets too,” Enjolras continues and, whoa, he definitely doesn’t remember that part. 

“What the hell?” he says. “That’s the ribs, I’m guessing.”

Enjolras nods. “You cracked a few and broke two pretty badly. You actually had to have surgery.”

_That_ wakes him up. “ _What?_ ” he gasps, trying to sit up farther and immediately regretting it. White-hot pain spikes through his chest and midsection and he falls back onto the bed, vision whiting out. When he comes back to himself, Enjolras is standing over him, hand firmly planted on his shoulder to stop him from moving. Not that he wants to, now.

“Jesus _shit_ ,” he says Enjolras looks amused. “Indeed,” he answers.

What kind of joker even says the word “indeed” anymore?

“I want the painkillers back,” he says. Enjolras shakes his head. “I have it on good authority—your authority—that you can’t be on them.”

“It’s the 21st century, and you’re telling me they don’t have an adequate alternative painkiller that isn’t an opiate? _Really_?”

“They do.  You're on them right now.”

“Ask them again.  For something better.”

“You can ask when the nurse comes back.”

He sighs and closes his eyes again, turning his head to press his temple into the pillow in an effort to abate his headache. Enjolras remains silent for a surprisingly long interval, so long that Grantaire is hovering near sleep by the time he speaks again.

“I’m sorry it hurts,” he says. “It should be me.”

Grantaire shakes his head against the pillow. “I’m glad it isn’t,” he admits.  It’s true. Grantaire is mostly useless, but he’s pretty good at lying in a hospital bed bearing someone else’s pain. He doesn’t want to think of Enjolras in his place.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Enjolras asks. He shakes his head again. “You can bring me something other than hospital food once I think I can eat it without throwing it back up.” 

“I’ll bring you something baked from Jehan,” Enjolras says, perfectly earnest.

“Thanks,” Grantaire whispers. And then he sleeps again.

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, Enjolras is still sitting next to him and the light has morphed into something softer and more gentle. Evening, then? Or are the curtains just closed? Enjolras is reading a book. After blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he realizes with a start it’s his copy of _Love in the Time of Cholera_.

Enjolras looks up, notices him looking. “Jehan brought it over,” he says, holding up the book. “They said you’re reading it right now?”

“Yeah,” he answers, closing his eyes again. They ache against even the dim light. “Have you been here all day?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers simply. “I’ll have to leave soon, though. Visiting hours end at eight.”

“Are you going to read to me till then, mother?”

He cracks an eye to see Enjolras’ expression. It doesn’t disappoint. He looks like he’s swallowed something sour.

“You need to find a sense of humor, Apollo.”

If possible, his expression sours further. “What?”

“Apollo. God of light, music, terrible poetry? Pretty boy, beloved by the other gods? Surely you know your Greeks, that’s where your precious, flawed democracy comes from.  Oh, of course, I should be calling you Pericles.”

“Don’t call me either,” Enjolras says stiffly. “I was thinking about reading to you, but now I don’t think I will.”

“I was _joking_. Making jest. Being witty. Wisecracking. _Making fun of you_. You’re supposed to laugh and tell me I’m hilarious.”

“You’re not,” Enjolras says firmly.

“Whatever you say,” he replies. “Apollo.”

They are silent for a moment. Enjolras traces the cover of the book with his fingers. Grantaire has a nice vintage copy, a hardback he found at a yard sale for a pathetically low price, which he’s very proud of. He appreciates that Enjolras appreciates it. 

“My grandmother used to know him, you know.”

“Who? A Florentino?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “ _Márquez._ Gabriel. They were friends. I met him once, when I was very young, at a party at her house. They both grew up in Aracataca.”

“Colombia?”

“Yeah. They met again later, when they were both living in Spain. But I met him when he was very old. I barely remember him. He was back in Colombia and visiting my grandmother, and she threw him a party. I remember he smelled old and gave me an anise candy that I didn’t like.”

“I didn’t know you were Colombian,” is the only thing Grantaire can think to say.

Enjolras laughs a little. “Yep.  My mother's family is Finnish, that's where I got most of my genes.  But I grew up in Bogotá." 

“How’d you end up with a name like Enjolras?”

“My father grew up in Spain with a French nanny and her son was his best friend. He was named Enjolras. He died young, before I was born, and my father named me for him.”

His mind reels. Mostly, he’s still stuck all the way back on his grandmother knowing Marquez.

“You should have gotten his autograph!” he says, “you should have at least _talked_ to him!”

“I was _five_ ,” says Enjolras, exasperated. “All I knew or cared is he had gross old-person candy.” 

He sighs and closes his eyes again. After a minute, Enjolras’ voice comes, oddly tentative. “Do you…want me to read?”

It seems monumental, to be here today, lying in the hospital with Enjolras— _Enjolras_ , who had driven him to drinking himself nearly to death a few short months ago—offering to read his favorite book to him out loud. Because he owed him, because he’d protected Enjolras at an insane rally he’d only gone to in the first place because Enjolras had asked him to. 

A funny feeling twists in his stomach. He can’t tell if it’s pleasure or discomfort, but what it really feels like is butterflies. Nerves. Excitement. Hope.

“Yeah,” he says. “Why not?”

So Enjolras does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. It's been awhile.
> 
> I apologize for the wait and also for not giving Combeferre a break.
> 
> I updated my software and now every time I open a program it crashes so don't update your software, kids.
> 
> Shameless self-promo: if you want confirmation that I am alive and haven't abandoned this story, check me out on tumblr at populus-tremuloides.tumblr.com


	9. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile! The last three months have been tough and I've had mad writer's block and also I'm dead inside so getting this chapter out has been difficult, and I apologize. 
> 
> Also, I started this a year ago! I was under the impression I'd write more than one chapter a month and be done in less than a year, but here we are. Thanks for all your support and engagement with this story, whether you've been following from the start or just started reading. Thank you!

MARCH

He ends up having to stay in the hospital for five days because his stupid stitches get infected and he ends up with a fever because he reacted badly to the other—useless—painkiller they gave him.  Enjolras is there a lot, which is still weird, though a little less so now.  They talk a lot—oddly enough, they have things to talk about.  Or argue about.  Mostly political idiocy and Enjolras’ starry-eyed idealism, which Grantaire finds he really enjoys poking holes in, but also a little bit of art history and a little bit about books, which is interesting.  Grantaire wouldn’t peg Enjolras as a person who reads for pleasure, but it turns out he also has a fondness for depressing 19th century Russian literature and magical realism.  Who would have thought?  Grantaire was halfway through _Love in the Time of Cholera_ before this whole debacle happened, and Enjolras takes to bringing it and reading a chapter or two out loud whenever he visits.  The one clear memory Grantaire has from when his fever was high is Enjolras reading one of Florentino’s love letters with such passion and tenderness in his voice Grantaire was half convinced it was a dream.

Bahorel and Feuilly visit, cautious and subdued, like he’s something that could break, until he asks them about their bruises and they launch into a lively re-telling of their fight and subsequent arrest.  Eponine comes every evening after work, smuggling in outside food for him and lying next to him in bed, telling him stories from her shift.  Once, Cosette and Marius come with her and he asks them point blank what’s going on between them.  He’s enjoying the privilege of being sick and in the hospital and able to write off rude questions as a side effect of everything.  They don’t seem offended, though.  They look at each other and all three blush, and Marius giggles a little.  “We don’t know what we’re doing,” Cosette finally answers.  “But we’re going to muddle through until it doesn’t work anymore.”  Grantaire thinks that’s a pretty solid plan.

Combeferre visits only once, pale and drawn with circles under his eyes.  He looks like he hasn’t slept since the rally.  Enjolras somewhat confirms this.  “I’m worried about him,” he says to Grantaire the day before he’s released.  “I hear him up at all hours, he does nothing but drink coffee, and he won’t talk to me about it.”

“He sounds like he’s acting like you,” Grantaire points out.  Enjolras frowns.  “Yeah, but he usually doesn’t.  And he and Courfeyrac haven’t said a word to each other that I’ve seen since the rally.”

Grantaire asks him about it.  “Are you and Courfeyrac good now?  After this?”

It’s the wrong question.  Combeferre’s face crumples and, to Grantaire’s abject horror, he starts crying.  He cuts himself off pretty quickly, apologizes approximately seven times in the span of a single minute, and starts crying again when Grantaire, pathetically, offers him a shitty hospital tissue.

“He helped me out the day after the rally, and then I ruined everything again!  I brought up the—you know, and I said I missed him and was sad I messed everything up and could we just forget it all and go back to normal and it was the wrong thing to say, I _know_ it was, and I didn’t want to say that, I wanted to say something different but I just _couldn’t_ because I—because I’m—“

“You like Enjolras.”

Combeferre whips his face around to stare at Grantaire with wide eyes.  His glasses are askew and his eyes are bright red and Grantaire feels awful for him, and for Courfeyrac too.  What a mess they are.

“How did you know that?” Combeferre demands.

“It’s not exactly hard to tell,” he says, as gently as possible.

Combeferre moans and puts his head down on the edge of Grantaire’s bed.  “It’s useless, it’s so pointless, I _know_ it’ll never happen with him.  It’s not even _love_ , it’s like an obsession, or an idolatry, nothing good or wholesome.  We’re just so close, and always have been and I can’t help but—“

“Hey, Combeferre, it’s _okay_.”

“No it’s not,” Combeferre mumbles into his sheet.

He’s never seen Combeferre this unglued.  Usually, he presents a stoic face and remains calm and collected for others, even when Grantaire can tell he’s got shit going on underneath.  Now, he’s completely undone.

“Okay, two things,” he says.  “One, you’ve gotta get some sleep, man.  Seriously.  You look shittier than I do right now and that’s saying something.  Two.  You’ve gotta figure this out.  I know you know that, and unfortunately I can’t tell you what to do to fix it, but you need to figure out what’s going to make you happy and do it as quickly as you can before you fall apart completely.”

“I’ve already fallen apart completely,” Combeferre says.  “More people have seen me cry this week than in all my years of high school and college.”

“Crying isn’t bad,” says Grantaire, which is rich since he hasn’t let anyone seen him cry since he left home.

“I know,” Combeferre says.  “I do it all the time.  In my room.  With the door locked.”

Grantaire pokes at his head until he lifts it again.  “Look,” he says.  “I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m shit at relationships and you shouldn’t listen to my advice.  But.  You’ve been miserable since this whole thing with Courfeyrac started and you need to fix it for real.  Not by telling him to forget the entire thing, because I’m guessing that didn’t make him feel too great.  And just from subtext and context—cause I’m really good at picking that up, you know—“ he makes a face to illustrate his sarcasm and Combeferre lets out a little laugh “you seem to be really fairly attached to having a good relationship with Courfeyrac.  So maybe that’s telling you something.”

Combeferre still looks tired and miserable when he leaves, but maybe also a little more determined.  Huh.  Grantaire giving relationship advice that people are actually listening to.  Maybe he really has changed.

By the time March rolls around Grantaire feels almost back to new.  Or, at least, his head does, after two weeks of dull headaches and weird nausea.  His ribs still protest if he moves too quickly or tries to twist around or walk too far or stand up for too long.  Which means he’s spent a lot of his time since he got out of the hospital either laying in bed painting or sitting at the kitchen table flipping through seed catalogues with Jehan.

“How the fuck can there be so many tomato varieties?” he asks.  “Look, there’s like 60 listed in this catalogue and another 40 in this one and _these jokers_ say they’ve got _over a thousand_ heirloom varieties stockpiled in their warehouse.  What the fuck?  This shit is _black_.  That doesn’t even look like a tomato.”

“There are over three-thousand varieties of garlic,” Jehan says in answer.  “And 60% of cultivated vegetables are derived from a single species— _Brassica rapa_ —that’s been bred for different qualities.  Broccoli—for flowers.  Kale and cabbage—for leaves.  Kohl Rabi—for stem.  Brussels sprouts—for buds.  Radishes—for roots.  Vegetables are quite endless in their variety.  Seeds are so amazing, they hold such diversity of life in such tiny little packages”

Normally, Grantaire would scoff at Jehan’s flowery and dreamy ode, especially considering they’re wearing a t-shirt with painstakingly rendered drawings of seed packets all over it.  But flipping through the shiny catalogues brings the same sort of awed wonder to the front of his mind that’s currently making its poetic way out of Jehan’s mouth.  

“Oooh,” he says, seeing a tomato variety he likes.  “Can we plant these?  It says there are stripes on the outside _and_ inside.”

As Jehan slides over to look at the picture, Grantaire’s phone rings.  He answers it without checking who’s calling and is greeted by Courfeyrac’s voice, cheerful and aggressive in his ear.

“Now, R,” Courfeyrac says, “if you’ll remember, you made me a promise a few months ago.”

A sense of foreboding settles in his stomach.  

“You’ll have to remind me,” he says.

“It’s gotten swept aside due to…recent events, but today is the day.  I do believe that you once agreed to accompany Enjolras to some bars, or other nighttime haunts, in order to force him to forget for five seconds all the things he’s constantly worried about and have fun.  How do you feel about honoring that promise tonight?”

“No,” Grantaire says immediately.  “No, no , no.”

“You _promised_.”

“I did not!  I absolutely did not promise you that!  I maybe mumbled something slightly affirmative and then left as quickly as I could.”

“That counts,” he says dismissively.  “Besides, you two or friends now or whatever, so it’s not weird.”

“It’s like...a _date_.”

“Don’t be weird about it, it’s an hour hanging out with some other people.  You’re the only person he seems interested in talking to lately, so you might actually have some luck getting his mind of midterms and whatever other crap it’s mired in.”

“Well, actually though, I _can’t._ I have a doctor’s appointment tonight.  4 pm, don’t know how long it’ll last, I’ll probably be exhausted afterwards.  So.  Another time, maybe.”

“Not a problem,” Courfeyrac says, breezy and light.  Grantaire grinds his teeth.  “Enjolras will take you to the appointment.”

“I don’t want to go to a bar,” he says, a last ditch effort, dragging his own sense of pride under the bus.

“We’re going to an open mic at a coffee shop, so that’s not a problem either.”

“I _definitely_ do not want to go to an open mic.”

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, sounding disappointed.  “Don’t be so difficult.  We’ll see you both tonight at the Musain.  Six o’clock.”

“That’s where I _work_ , I don’t--” he tries to protest, but Courfeyrac’s hung up.

“I’m reading at that open mic,” Jehan says vaguely.  

“Oh.  Uh.  Well, not that I don’t want to see you read.  I do.  I just already have to work there and stuff, so, you know.”

“You just don’t want to hang out with Enjolras.  Relax.  Courf’s just going overboard, but it would be nice to have you there.”

He ends up agreeing, mostly out of guilt, but he arranges for Bahorel to drive him to his doctor’s appointment because there’s no way in hell Enjolras is.

A quarter to four, Enjolras pulls up in front of the house and beeps his horn.  His honking is polite and restrained, which, for some reason, infuriates Grantaire.

Bahorel winks at him from the doorway to the living room.  “Guess you won’t be needing that ride,” he says, and walks away before Grantaire can yell at him.  Grumbling to himself, he picks up his bag and resigns himself to an awkward night.

“I’m sorry about Courfeyrac,” is Enjolras’ greeting.  “He gets carried away and I nearly killed him after he got off the phone with you.  He didn’t realize I was in the kitchen with him.  You don’t have to come to the open mic with me.”

“I already promised Jehan I’d go, so we might as well go together,” he grumbles.  Enjolras shrugs, and they’re silent the rest of the way to the hospital.  Some sort of news radio drones on, talking about airport worker strikes, which doesn’t seem like news to Grantaire considering it happens at least once a month.  Enjolras listens intently.

“The disgusting thing about this,” he says halfway to the hospital, “about all this, really, is that these injustices are so obvious and visible and yet so part of the accepted system that the proletariat, which should be supporting their fellow workers, finds itself able to ignore everything they see.  Because it’s not their problem, right?  But it _is_ their problem, because they’ll be the next one’s striking.”

Grantaire doesn’t think this statement is one he’s expected to reply to, but after a moment of silence he glances over to see Enjolras staring at him expectantly.  

“Yeah?” he says, hesitantly.  “I mean, I think it makes sense in that a capitalist system keeps workers busy and desperate enough to not have the time or energy to pay attention to stuff like that.  Even if people hear about the strikes and think they want to support them, it’s not like they can walk out of work to go protest, you know?”

Enjolras sighs.  “It all comes back to capitalism, doesn’t it?”

“Always,” he agrees.  

Enjolras’ lips twitch.  

“What?”

“You _do_ have political opinions!”

“What--I wasn’t _endorsing_ anything!  I was just...offering an observation.”

“You criticized the capitalist system.”

“I never said the capitalist system wasn’t fucked, I just don’t think there’s much we can do about it!”

“Regardless,” Enjolras says, a smug tint to his voice as they turn into the hospital parking lot.  “You have opinions.”

“Everyone does,” Grantaire grumbles, and slams the door extra hard.  Just for emphasis.

The appointment ends quickly after confirming everything Grantaire already knew: his ribs are healing but not yet healed, he should remain careful about physical activity, though moving around more at this point and building some strength might help, and no, he can’t have any more strong prescription painkillers.

“But it _hurts_ ,” he whines.  “I can’t sleep at night.”

The doctor pats his shoulder with practiced dispassion.  “Take some paracetamol and don’t sleep on your right side.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing!” he protests.

The doctor gives him a patient smile and moves to open the door.  “Goodbye, Grantaire.  We’ll see you in two weeks.”

Enjolras slouches in a waiting room chair, frowning at a copy of _The Economist_ , knee jiggling incessantly.  He looks up as Grantaire approaches him.  “How are you?”

“Still alive,” he says. “The doctor said I could start working on building climbing strength again, so Bahorel can start up his torture-training regime soon.”

Enjolras smiles at him, full and brilliant.  “Good.”  He jumps up and tosses the magazine aside.  “You’re done early; we should grab some food before the reading.”

He ate about five minutes before he left the house, but he’s still shell-shocked by Enjolras’ smile and, well...Enjolras is asking him to go eat some food, which is dangerously close to a _date_ , which it definitely isn’t because this is _Enjolras_ , but it’s also definitely not something he’s going to pass up.  Because that would be rude, right? So he just nods and follows Enjolras out the door.

“I know a good place,” Enjolras says as he starts the car.  “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

“How do you know?” he replies, somewhat offended by his confidence.  “You still barely know me, really.”

“I’ve seen you eat literally anything put in front of you,” Enjolras says.  “One time you ate raw garlic because there was a bowl of it on the table near you while you were painting.”

“Raw garlic is good for you,” he retorts.  “It keeps you from getting sick.”

“Do you live for argument?” Enjolras asks. “Most people can’t eat raw garlic cloves without breaking a sweat.”

He settles back in his seat with a huff and shuts his mouth.  Unfortunately, Enjolras has a point--he will eat just about anything.  He’s the only one who’s happy to try every cooking or baking disaster that comes out of their kitchen.

Enjolras takes them to a tiny, hole in the wall noodle shop where all the employees speak Japanese.  He orders for them both (in Japanese--how many languages can one guy speak?) and they sit down in a tiny booth.

“This place has the most authentic ramen in the city.  At least according to Joly.  I’ve never had real authentic ramen, I guess.”

“Why do you speak Japanese?”

Enjolras shrugs.  “I dunno.  I asked Joly to teach me a bit a few summers ago.  I’m only on a basic conversational level, and I can’t read or write anything.  It’s actually a very easy language to learn.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes.  “You’re on a different level, dude.”

Their food comes, and Enjolras apparently has quite a good read on Grantaire’s food preferences because Grantaire loves ramen.  Granted, he loves noodles in any form, and most of his previous ramen experiences involved vaguely stale cup noodles.  But this stuff:  Man, he wasn’t hungry at all before they got here, but he manages to down the entire bowl of fragrant broth and chewy noodles in under ten minutes, complete with lots of slurping while Enjolras stares, chopsticks held delicately and properly between his thin fingers.

“You were hungry?” he asks as Grantaire pushes his empty bowl away.

“Not particularly.  This place is great.  I’m coming here once a week from now one.”

Enjolras flashes him a small smile before ducking his head to focus on his noodles.  With a start, Grantaire realizes he looks relieved, maybe a bit proud.  Was he worried Grantaire wouldn’t like it?  Is he pleased to have pleased him?  His stomach clenches and he’s left slightly breathless, staring as Enjolras sucks up a tangle of noodles.

Watching Enjolras’ lips is a vaguely meditative activity, so Grantaire gets a bit lost until Enjolras says his name again.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says.  He refocuses on Enjolras’ entire face.  There’s a drop of broth slowly sliding down his chin.  He resists wiping it off with his thumb, pointing at it instead.  Enjolras cheeks color as he swipes at it with a napkin.  Between that, the unbrushed state of his hair, and the lips reddened by the hot soup, he looks positively debauched.  

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras says again.  “I asked you a question.”

“I was not paying attention,” he says truthfully.  “Please repeat.”

Enjolras’ eyes roll almost of their own accord.  “I asked, would you be willing to help plan our next action?”

“You’re already on our next action? After what happened? I’ve not even recovered from the last one!”

Enjolras smirks.  “You said _our_.”

“What?”

“ _Our_ next action.  You’re already involved in your own mind!”

“That’s not what I meant.  I just--just.  How am I supposed to help? I’m a bit wary of making another poster, considering how it went last time.”  He feels immediately guilty for saying it, as Enjolras visibly wilts.

“I said I was sorry about that.  I meant it.  It wasn’t about your poster, it was about my own shit, your poster was perfect.”

“I know, I know.  Sorry, just giving you shit,” he says hurriedly.  “Still.  How am I supposed to help? I’m not an organizer and--sorry--I don’t want to be.”

Enjolras sighs and sets his chopsticks down.  “I’ve been thinking.  I think we need to have an end-of-year action, to harness the support and interest we got from this last one.  Tensions might be high because of elections, too.  But after the rally, I don’t know...I’ve been thinking of having something more positive.  More about building up, or community, that sort of thing, instead of focused on anger and disruption.  Which, don’t get me wrong, I still think we need, and what happened at the rally doesn’t change that.”

Grantaire nods slowly.  “I think that’s...good?  Uncharacteristic, but good.”

Enjolras shoots him a _look_.  “You don’t know me that well, either, you know.  I have multiple personality traits.”

“Really?”

Enjolras gallantly ignores him.  “ _Anyway_.  You’re an artist, you’re in with the art community.  I’m wondering if you know any people, like graffiti artists or people working on protest artwork, or social justice projects, who might be interested in working on a public display we could put up as part of a demonstration.”

Interesting.  Pointless as a form of protest, but potentially a good platform for artists to get their work out to the university crowd.  

“I wouldn’t say I’m _in with the art community_ , but I know a few people,” he says slowly.  “I could talk to them.  Might help to have a little better idea of what type of display you’re thinking.”

Enjolras picks his chopsticks up again, looking pleased.  “I’m gonna spend some time over break thinking about it and planning it out with some other people.  See what other groups on campus think; maybe we can make it a joint demonstration focused on coalition and power building.  I don’t know yet, but I do think that’s the direction I’d like to go.  I’d mentioned it to Feuilly at the last meeting and he thought he could get that collective he’s a part of to work on some kind of overall vision for it.  I really want it to be a community-based thing, rather than something I--well, something that’s all my ideas.”

“You _have_ changed,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras smiles down at his empty bowl.  “It was hard at first, but honestly...being less central to the group has been nice.  It’s allowed me to appreciate everyone around me more.  And I have more time to sleep.”

“That’s always nice,” Grantaire says solemnly.  Enjolras’ eyes roll again and he pushes away his bowl.  “Ready to go?”

“Yep.” He fumbles in his back pocket for his wallet, but Enjolras’ light hand on his arm stops him.  “I dragged you here.  It’s on me.”

“Are you sure?” he starts, but Enjolras just gives him another brilliant smile and shoulders in front of him to get to the counter first.  His stomach twists again, and he’s left with butterflies for the rest of the night.

* * *

It’s a Wednesday.  Midterms.  A week and a half to go until spring break when he can finally, _finally_ sleep for awhile.  He had been planning on going home, at least until winter break happened.  Now, staying here, taking extra shifts at the bookstore, and sleeping sound like great alternative options.  

Courfeyrac is staying in town to work on some massive group project and apply for jobs. Enjolras, uncharacteristically, is actually leaving town to visit his parents and grandmother since he didn’t see them over winter break, which means he and Courf have the place to themselves.  Which is...stressful.

Their dynamic has shifted further since the day after the rally.  On the surface, it’s friendlier.  They talk about normal things, Courfeyrac will sit near him at meetings, sling his arm around his neck and hug him at a bar on the weekend, bring him Geoff when it’s late and he’s still working on a paper.  To an outsider, to any of their friends except perhaps Grantaire, who’s looking for it, they must seem normal.  It’s only Combeferre who notices the real changes.  No more Courfeyrac showing up drunk in his bedroom in the early morning to talk.  No more Courfeyrac showing up _sober_ in the early hours of the morning to talk.  No more talking about anything slightly related to the two of them at all, just gossip about all their other friends.  No more extra coffee waiting in the pot in the morning--Courfeyrac only makes enough for himself now.  No more meandering conversations about books or politics, no more guffawing over John Oliver episodes, all three of them sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen table.  Sometimes, he hears Enjolras and Courfeyrac watching them, but he is no longer included.  He watches the clips alone at work now, in the slow time before closing.  No more annoyance or nagging Courfeyrac to turn down his music, not even when the new Beyonce album drops, because Courfeyrac no longer plays music loudly enough to warrant Combeferre coming into his room to ask to turn it down.  Conversations riddled with Courfeyrac’s offhand comments about how he finds so-and-so attractive, or “Oohhh, look at his _ass_ ” as they walk together across campus.  No more walking together across campus, unless it’s by chance.  

He feels as though he’s being punished, and maybe that’s what he deserves.  The worst thing is, there’s nothing he can do about it now.  He blew his only chance, handled it unforgivably, and there’s no reason Courfeyrac should grant him another.

Enjolras asks him once if there’s something wrong.  He’s cooking eggs in nothing but his boxers, the rare afternoon spring sunshine washing him in unearthly light.  Combeferre is trying to focus on pages of ecology notes, and failing.

“Things seem weird between you.  I hope it’s not that I said something to you about...you know.  I hope that didn’t make things awkward.”

“ _That_ didn’t,” he answers.  

“So...what then?” Enjolras asks, expertly flipping his eggs and turning to appraise him.  He carefully averts his eyes.  How someone who never seems to exercise can have such chiseled abs, he doesn’t know. Maybe Enjolras deals with his insomnia by doing crunches.  

He’s so done.

“He kissed me.  I didn’t react well.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen.  “ _Really_?  Did you...not want him to?”

“No,” Combeferre shakes his head.  “I didn’t mind.  I liked it.  It’s just...complicated.”   _Because of you_ hangs unsaid on the end of his sentence.  

Enjolras’ expression molds into something dangerously close to pity.  “You should just talk to him, ‘Ferre.  He’s good at feelings and stuff, he’ll understand and you can make up and be happy.”

He says it like it’s so simple.  Maybe it would be for him.  Enjolras never seems confused by much, and when he is, he figures it out pretty quickly, mostly because it drives him insane until he does.

If only he knew, though, the extent of Combeferre’s problems.

“Yeah,” he answers.  “Maybe.”

Enjolras leaves the stove and bends down to give him a one-armed hug.  “I don’t like to see you so sad, ‘Ferre,” he says, then presses a kiss to his temple.   _This is why he has issues_.

“Your eggs are burning,” Combeferre says.

* * *

His problem is that he doesn’t understand love.  His problem is that he loves too easily and too much.  His problem is that he can’t tell the difference between wanting to kiss someone and wanting to settle down and live with them for the rest of his life. A few weeks ago, while trying to study for comparative animal physiology--a fascinating class, though not as important as trying to figure out how to fix things with Courfeyrac--he’d written out a list.  It included every close friend he’s had, both here and at home, and he went through it person by person trying to figure out how many of them he was in love with.  The answer was all of them, which didn’t help him much because he really couldn’t figure out the difference between romantic and platonic love.  He didn’t think he would be interested in going on a romantic date with Bahorel, for instance, but then again, Bahorel would be a perfectly lovely person to live with and raise a family with and maybe even grow old with.  Same with Cosette.  Same with Grantaire.  Enjolras, on the other hand, he could imagine going on a romantic date with, and kissing him afterwards, and undressing him slowly, and stretching him out over the bed….

Then again, maybe he can only imagine the post-date stuff with Enjolras.  Would going on a date with him be weird?  It would be, it would be awkward, they wouldn’t be themselves with each other.  They wouldn’t be able to go on dates. Enjolras would be frustrated because they wouldn’t be doing or talking about anything important.  He would be frustrated because he couldn’t wait to get Enjolras’ clothes off.

Is that just lust, then?  He doesn’t think so.  He respects and admires Enjolras too much for it to be that banal.  And he’s had plenty of fantasies of growing old with Enjolras, and of Enjolras cooking them lots of meals, standing at the stove in only his underwear, as he already does.

Combeferre has a lot of fuel for his Enjolras fantasies.  

Then-Courfeyrac.  He can imagine going on a date with him.  He knows the restaurant they’d go to, a local farm to table place that Jehan would approve of (Jehan is another person Combeferre can picture going on a date with--maybe even having sex with?--but probably not growing old with, mostly because he can’t really imagine Jehan ever growing old).  He knows the spot by the river he’d take him, maybe while eating ice cream.  He knows where a patch of wild sunflowers bloom, and knows he’d pick one for Courfeyrac because those are his favorites.  He knows what would happen after the date, and he can practically feel the morning after, curled around another warm body with the sun coming in through the window, illuminating his face, like that morning three months ago.  He can imagine it and see it happening time after time, and it feels like comfort.

But it doesn’t seem right when he’s also fantasizing about fucking Enjolras in their kitchen.

The only conclusion of the exercise was the realization that he would happily have sex with half his friends and live in domestic bliss in perpetuity with the other half.  It leaves him feeling vaguely dirty, and he has trouble making eye contact with anyone at the next meeting.  

In the end, he keeps coming back to two things.  The comfort of Courfeyrac’s scent, which he never catches anymore, and the overwhelming sense of _rightness_ he felt when Courfeyrac kissed him.  Like it was the thing he should have been doing all along.  Like it was the answer to every question he’d ever asked.

And the most frustrating thing of all: the fact that he’s lost that forever, probably.  Grantaire and Enjolras may both think it would be simple to fix, but they don’t know the whole story.

He floats through midterms in a haze.  He’s not sure how he does, and he’s not sure he cares.  His friends start disappearing for spring break, first Bahorel, off on yet another climbing trip, this time dragging both Grantaire and Bossuet with him.  Then Jehan, to meet up with friends at some music festival out in the country.  Then Cosette, Marius, and Eponine, off on a trip to the seashore with Cosette’s dad.  Then Enjolras, who hugs him tightly at the airport and tells him yet again to “fix things with Courf, honestly ‘Ferre, if I come back and you still have that look on your face I don’t know what I’ll do.”

 _“Tell me how,”_ he wants to say.   _“Tell me how and I’ll do it right now.”_  Instead, he hugs him back and tells him to have fun.  “I’ll call you about the action plans!” Enjolras shouts as he walks away, waving enthusiastically.  He waves back and goes to work, feeling more dejected than ever.  

He reads three books over the first four days of break and doesn’t talk to anyone other than customers in the shop.  He sees Courfeyrac once, on the morning of the second day as he’s leaving.  He gives a wave.  Combeferre waves back and is left with his hand hanging limply in the air as the door closes.  He spends most of that day lying facedown in bed listening to music turned up far too loud.

He distantly recognizes that this probably isn’t healthy behaviour, that he should, at the very least, reach out to Courfeyrac and ask to eat dinner or watch a movie or something one night, just for the sake of human contact.  Or hit up Joly or Feuilly, both still in town, and go out.  But it’s a lot of effort.  Too much.

On Thursday, Joly calls him.  “Courfeyrac says you’re moping.”

“Am not,” he says.  He’s laying on the couch instead of in his bed.  He just woke up from a nap, and he can feel dried drool on his cheek.  He still hasn’t done any homework, and the only times he’s left the apartment is to go to work.  He can hear the irony echoing through his words.

“Whatever,” Joly says.  “You’re coming out with us tonight.  Feuilly, Chetta, a couple of Feuilly’s friends and I are getting drinks and you’re not allowed to say no.”

“What if I have to work?” he argues dully.

“You don’t.  We all know your schedule.”

“I picked up extra shifts this week.”

“Okay, are you working tonight, Combeferre?”

“...no.”

“Right.  See you at seven at the Corinth.”

“If Courfeyrac notices I’m sulking why doesn’t he do something about it?” he asks.  He’s never sounded so petulant in his life, and he has to close his eyes and wince after the words come out of his mouth.

“He’s really busy with the project,” Joly says soothingly.  “You know that.  And he’s met that guy, Oliver, he’s been hanging out with him a lot.”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah, one of the guys working on his group project? I guess they’ve hit it off.  He hasn’t said anything about that to you?”

His stomach feels lead-lined.  “Oh.  Right.  Oliver,” he says, voice wooden.  “I’ll see you at seven.”  He hangs up the phone before Joly can reply.

It’s not like he should be surprised.  Why wouldn’t Courfeyrac be with someone else?  Combeferre had made it abundantly clear that there wasn’t a reason to wait around for him.

He spends the rest of the day in bed.

Joly, because he is a kind and perfect friend, gets him thoroughly drunk.  They hop around to a few different bars and end at Feuilly’s hipster place, where Combeferre drinks two more moscow mules and eats an entire bowl of curry spiced cashews before nearly falling asleep at the bar.  At that point, Joly and Musichetta take pity on him and help him home.  He thinks he can make it up the stairs alright, so he waves them off at the door and watches them walk away in the hazy light of the streetlamps.  He feels good, better than he has in the last few months, and he knows that’s the alcohol talking, and that taking relief in it is dangerous, but he can’t help it.  Contentment is hard to come by, and now that he’s feeling it, it will be hard to let it go.

He stumbles up the stairs and, as he fumbles with his key, notices light through the door’s frosted window.  Interesting.  He hadn’t left any on when he left, and it’s near 1 AM now, so Courfeyrac should be at home and already asleep.  He finally gets the door open and stumbles in, freezing at what he sees in the living room.

Courfeyrac, laying spread on the couch, pinned down and ardently kissing another guy.  The dark hair and defined derrier is all that Combeferre can really see of this person, and that’s all he really wants to see.  The feel-good buzz of the alcohol is gone in an instant and he’s left with panic in his chest, frozen and staring.

Courfeyrac breaks out of the kiss and peers around the guy’s arm.  The guy turns around too, fixing Combeferre with icy blue eyes.

“Sorry!” he blurts, then inexplicably flashes a peace sign.  It’s the only thing his hand can think to do.  Before either of them can reply, he runs down the hall and slams himself into his room, breathing hard.

Before long, a door slams and a single pair of footsteps pat down the hallway.  Another door closes.  Presumably, the guy left and Courfeyrac is now in bed.  His mind wars between guilt for interrupting them and relief he didn’t have to listen to them have sex in the room next door.

He doesn’t leave his room, even though he desperately needs to use the bathroom.  He doesn’t sleep, either, not until early dawn when dreams come fitfully, in and out of his mind until he awakes for good with a headache and a dry mouth.

The next day is spent working, which is good because the shop stays fairly busy and it keeps his mind of Courfeyrac.  When he gets home, he finally, reluctantly, picks up a textbook and starts on a lab report that’s been assigned to him for weeks.  He’s halfway through at 8 PM, surrounded by cups of tea and three different notebooks, when the door opens and Courfeyrac and The Guy stumble in, laughing.  Courfeyrac pulls up short when he sees him in the kitchen.

“I thought you were working tonight,” he says.

Combeferre shakes his head slowly and breaks his eyes away from Oliver, who he’s been staring at rather uncouthly since they walked in the door.  “I had an afternoon shift.”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac shifts uncomfortably.  “Well...this is Oliver.  Oliver, Combeferre.  My...roommate.”

He’s been downgraded even from “friend”.

“Hi,” he says, voice choking in his throat.  

“We’ll just...go now,” Courfeyrac says, grabbing Oliver’s arm and dragging him down the hall.  The door to his room slams shut, immediately followed by the creak of bedsprings and the low tone of voices.

He stares after them for a moment, before setting his head down on the table and gently banging it a few times.  The mugs rattle.  He’s not getting any more of this report done tonight.  He grabs a half-full mug, scoops Geoff up from his perch on top of the radiator, and moves to the living room.  It’s the farthest place possible from Courfeyrac’s room while still remaining in the apartment.  He curls in his favorite chair, picks up a book, and turns his music up loud enough to block out any noise.

He’s just managed to get his mind off of the two of them when Oliver crosses back through the living room and leaves without acknowledgement.   _That was quick_ , he thinks to himself, and scratches Geoff’s chin.  

Movement at the doorway makes him look up again.  Courfeyrac stands there, in only his underwear, hair mussed and bite marks stark on his neck.  The scars on his chest are thrown into pale relief by the dim light of Combeferre’s lamp.  His eyes are strange and empty.

“Courf?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes flit to his momentarily, then drop.  His arms come up to circle his chest and he suddenly looks far smaller, more vulnerable, more childlike.  

He sets his book aside and stands.  “Are you okay?”

“Not as though you would care,” Courfeyrac replies in a whisper.  

“What?”

“What do you care about any of it, Combeferre?  Honestly, you can fuck right off.  I can't take your shit right now.”  He turns and disappears into the shadows of the hallway.

Combeferre’s frozen for a moment, stunned by his words, but comes to himself quickly enough to follow Courfeyrac before he can shut himself in his room.  

“What are you talking about?  Of course I care about it when you’re standing half naked looking like the world just ended in front of you!”

Courfeyrac tries to shut the door.  Combeferre sticks his foot into it.  Courfeyrac opens it back up and glares at him.

“Did he do something, Courf?”

Courfeyrac snorts.  “He didn’t do anything.  That’s the problem.”

Combeferre stares at him.  His arms are still crossed, covering the scars on his chest, hand snaking up to rest over the bite marks on his neck.

“Did he...say something?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and turns away.

“Courf!  Please, just-”

Courfeyrac spins around and takes a step closer to Combeferre.  “He didn’t say anything.  He didn’t do anything.  He’d just decided I had deceived him with my gender and _sexual assets_ , so he decided to leave.  Because I can't catch a _motherfucking break._ That’s all.  Alright?”

The door shuts in his face with a loud bang and a lock clicks.

“Fuck,” he says into the darkness of the hallway.

A thin ribbon of light streams from below Courfeyrac’s door, but he can see Courfeyrac’s shadow blocking part of it.  He’s still standing there, frozen in front of the door.  As he watches, the shadow thickens and spreads, blocking more of the light.  A soft scrape sounds against the door.  Courfeyrac sitting against the door.

He sits, too, back resting against the door.  Their shadows mingle.  Geoff toddles in from the living room, the faint light from the living room shining on the ends of his fur.  He settles himself perched on one of Combeferre’s legs.  A whimper emerges from behind the door.  

“Courfeyrac...Courf,” he whispers.  “Listen.  I don’t--I don’t deserve another chance to explain myself.  But...I’m going to try anyway, I guess.  Since we’re here.

“I was wrong, and I’ve been wrong about everything since...well, since I started ignoring everything my brain was telling me, so since, like, October. You’ve been so important to me for so long, since the beginning.  You know more about me than anyone, you’ve given me more than anyone has and I just--I hadn’t realized.  Until you kissed me, and everything just fell into place.  Like something had been solved that I’d been working on for years.”

He laughs wetly.  “I’ve started having these fantasies.  About the simplest stuff, Courf.  There's a restaurant I want to go to with you, and I get stuck thinking about you every time I pass it.  There’s a place by the river where all these wild sunflowers grow in August; I want to go there and just sit with you for awhile on some sunny day.  I can’t believe I’m telling you this, cause I cringe at myself over how cheesy it is every time it crosses my mind.  But it crosses my mind _a lot_.  

“And that night, before finals, when we fell asleep with Geoff.  I woke up early and saw you sleeping, with Geoff on top of you.  I should have gotten up to study, but I couldn’t leave.  I didn’t want to.  It wasn’t because I was tired or because Geoff was too cute or because I wanted to keep procrastinating.  It was because I just wanted to keep laying there, next to you, and forget the rest of my problems because I was just happy to be with you.”

He’s really going now.  The words are pouring out of his mouth, stuff he never thought he would say out loud, stuff that hadn’t even been fully formed in his own mind.  He’s saying it all, words heavy in the air between them.  There’s wetness on his cheeks and he’s on his knees now, forehead against the door, hand resting against it.  Why’s he even crying?  Who the fuck knows.

“I keep fucking up and ruining things more and more even though everything I’ve said is the exact opposite of...of what I’ve been wanting to say.

“Which is primarily that I didn’t mind that kiss.  I was startled, that’s true, but not anything more than that.  And when I said I wanted to just pretend it didn’t happen, I meant I missed you.  I missed you, and I blamed the change on the fact you kissed me, when the change was just because I was emotionally stunted about the whole thing.  I just wanted things to go back to normal, so I blurted that out when it’s not what I meant at all.  I didn’t want to hurt you more.  That’s the last thing I wanted.  And I guess what I’m trying to say about all of this is that I’m sorry, I was wrong, and...I definitely don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

The door is yanked open with such force he nearly falls forward into Courfeyrac’s room.  Instead, he overcorrects and falls backward on his ass.

Courfeyrac stares at him, looking almost angry, fists clenched and eyes blazing.

“Let me kiss you,” he hisses.

Combeferre reaches for him and Courfeyrac collapses on his knees between Combeferre’s legs and kisses him with such bruising force it hurts, fisting his hands in Combeferre’s hair to pull him even closer.  “I hate you,” he gasps when he finally comes up for air.  “Combeferre, you absolute ass, I hate you so much.  Why couldn’t you say all this three months ago?”

“I needed this long to figure it out,” he admits.  Courfeyrac glares at him and dives back in, pushing him backwards to the ground.  Combeferre winds his arms around Courfeyrac and pulls him as close as he can, biting a new mark into his neck over Oliver’s, a possessive spark coiling in is stomach as he does so.  Courfeyrac moans and Combeferre thinks that’s the only sound he ever needs to hear again.

Courfeyrac works his shirt off.  He’s forceful, almost violent in his kisses, tearing at Combeferre’s clothing, biting him, pulling his hair and clutching his skin hard enough to sting.  He finds himself gasping between kisses, clutching at Courfeyrac harder, moaning himself.

“Fuck, Courfeyrac, I can’t--”

Courfeyrac silences him with a kiss. “After everything you put me through,” he gasps, “I get to do whatever I want with you.”  He kisses him again, hard, then pulls back.  “As long as that’s okay with you.”

They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, silent and still.  From the end of the hall, Geoff watches, as voyeuristic as any cat, still silhouetted by the light from the living room.

“Yeah,” he finally breathes, “I think that’s okay with me.”

Courfeyrac pushes him back down and carefully removes Combeferre’s crooked glasses, setting them aside.  He grins wickedly as he pulls their hips together.  Combeferre gasps again, clutching at Courfeyrac, and closes his eyes.

* * *

An hour later, they’re lying on the floor next to each other, both nearly naked and panting.  Combeferre’s never felt this satisfied in his life.  He hope Courfeyrac feels similarly, and from the look on his face, he does.  Eyes closed, mouth half open and quirked in a slight smile, hair mussed and sweaty, lips red and bitten.  He hasn’t seen anything more beautiful in his life.  

“You good?” he mumbles, rolling his head towards Courfeyrac.

“Mmmmm,” Courfeyrac sighs.  “Thanks for being okay with stopping where we did.”

“Yeah,” he says blankly.  “Of course.  I mean, this was good.  Like _really_ good.”

Courfeyrac rolls onto his side and touches Combeferre’s cheek.  “I don’t want you to be a rebound.  Not that you would have been, really, but I just-”

“It’s okay,” he says.  “You don’t have to explain.  We have time, right?”

Courfeyrac smiles at him, a little shy, a little flirty.  “Yep.”

“Wanna go to bed?”

His grin widens.  “Yep.”

They haul themselves up, leaving Combeferre’s clothes scattered in the hallway.  Courfeyrac scoops Geoff up and they fall into bed.  This time, Combeferre crawls under the covers and pulls Courfeyrac close, relishing in his warmth, the feeling of his body close by.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again in Courfeyrac’s ear right before he falls asleep.

Courfeyrac reaches back and clumsily pats his head.  “I’ll forgive you someday, maybe, if you’re very well behaved.”  He sighs and shifts closer.  “Just don’t leave,” he mumbles.

“Where would I go?”

The moonlight shines through the window, falling over Courfeyrac's face and bare shoulder.  The radiator clicks on and breathes an exhale of warm air into the room.  A slight snore escapes from Courfeyrac.  Geoff shifts and curls into a tighter ball, purring.

His mind is quiet and calm, almost lethargic with relief.  The  _rightness_ of it all, the peace he's caught handfuls of here and there since the start of all this mess, surrounds him and sends him to sleep, Courfeyrac's smell filling his nose.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr. www.populus-tremuloides.tumblr.com. Right now everything is political but maybe someday I'll get back to my peaceful life of reblogging les mis, scenic landscapes and memes.


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